My Mind's Eye
by gruff
Summary: 2nd fanfic prequel to canon fiction The Magnificent Six by S. Furman, and fanfic Peace Through Tyranny by gruff, charting Megadeath's rise to power from Front Line soldier to Stanix Governor and his unlikely collaboration with Headwind, a student pacifist


My Mind's Eye by gruff

My name is Headwind and I once knew a powerful Transformer called Megadeath, or to put it more accurately, a powerful Transformer called Megadeath once knew me. But I cannot tell his story without telling my own, so this is the tale of how a small, flashing icon on a console changed our lives forever.

--

PROLOGUE The Principles Of Science

The mind is a curious thing. It has been speculated that one's imagination is bound by the limits of experience. As a student at the Iacon Institute of Higher Technology I was forever being told to 'think outside the box'. Quite what that meant was open to discussion and philosophical debate. Were it possible to define 'the box', then all that encompasses the box would, itself, be bound by an outer box. Should we be thinking outside of this box also?

Quite what were the origins and literal meanings of the expression were neither here nor there. The idea was to promote openness of mind and thought. Something is only unique until its influence has been identified, either by luck or judgement. As scientists and engineers, we could accept that ideas beget ideas and concepts conceive concepts; design is, after all, evolutionary. But the running theme behind the Institute was to allow ourselves the perverse pleasure of being influenced.

Influence, so they claimed, was a powerful tool, more powerful than the modelling techniques we study, more powerful than the databases of our existing knowledge stored on super-computers, more powerful than the ionising fusion accelerators being developed by under-stimulated scientists pilfered by militaries striving for the Perfect Weapon. The worth of existing knowledge could never be understated, but to go beyond and think laterally outside the box was where the real gains were to be made. The intangible value of idea and the inherent benefits of innovation were the key to social development.

It is in our nature to evolve and develop our minds to challenge the borders of 'the box' and our own ways of thinking. "Be influenced." we were told on a daily basis, so it should have come as no surprise when our assignment was as open-ended as to do 'something new'.

I stared at the speaker at the front of the room for a moment, before allowing my gaze to drift right towards Brainstorm who sat beside me. Perhaps sensing my wonders, or as awed by the sheer magnitude of the assignment himself, his head turned to face mine. The lecture was dismissed and as the students began to leave, we opened our mouths to the torrents of floodwater that might escape.

"Do 'something new'." I quoted. Brainstorm nodded, clicking a button on the personal console on his left arm and closing its hatch. We stood up to leave, our minds trying to work out where to start. It was a very open assignment; with unlimited scope for ingenuity, there were no project requirements in terms of collaboration. It went without saying that we would partner up in something, but as we began to ponder what we might research, or indeed, with whom, our thoughts were interrupted.

"Hey there, Brainy, Warhammer! You guys got any thoughts?" boomed Chromedome coming up from behind, muscling his way between us with a strong-felt clasp upon each of our shoulders. He smiled; I grimaced. I never had much time for him. I was not a fan of Chromedome, but he was one of Brainstorm's friends, so I tried not to allow my animosity to show. Brainstorm and I were too quiet to fend off Chromedome's ample charisma so his simple act of catching up with us meant he was already on-board. What we needed was someone else to act as a go-between.

As if reading my mind Brainstorm suggested we might meet up with Highbrow. "Pah." Spat Chromedome, his expression probably screwed beneath the large mouth plate that covered his lower face. "We don't want that arrogant headline-stealer coming in and stealing our thunder." Quite where the irony stopped and the pity began, I was unable to make a clear distinction. I wanted to tell him 'we' did not necessarily have to want anything. But Brainstorm was too polite to tell him no, and there was a reason why he could call me Warhammer or Deathbringer or whatever nickname he wanted and get away with it.

To say I was a well-documented pacifist would be to overstate my reputation, but amongst social circles, it was considered wise not to bring the numerous civil wars around Cybertron into the conversation. As a scientist doing my best to prolong and develop Cybertronian technologies for the good of our society, I found it gut-wrenchingly sickening to hear of the abuse of this technology in the name of warfare and persecution. Although I felt his mocking a little over the top, I could at least ingest his nicknames as simple ironic nods towards my public disdain for war. It was a flaw in his character to pick at the character flaws of others, but that was Chromedome. To say I hated him and his 'jokes' would be to trivialise a strong word, but to say I liked him would be to be liberal with the truth also.

Besides, as loud-mouthed and brash as he was, Chromedome was one of the best programmers I knew. By the time you had worked out what it was you wanted to write, he would have already written it, added a bunch of additional tools and quadrupled its efficiency since its first mental draft. "I was thinking we might talk with First Aid?" I offered. "He'll know what's big in the world of research at the moment."

"Yeah, we'll have a word with the Fizster." smiled Chromedome, as if it was his idea. I cringed at the friendly name he had chosen for a simply brilliant student who could have forged a career along one of many different paths. First Aid may not have considered himself an ideas guy; he claimed he was never one for 'thinking outside the box' unless really pushed, but he excelled in understanding the practices of yesteryear. While that mountain of knowledge in itself was enough to spark idea after idea, his modesty would never allow him to take the credit he duly deserved. If influence was going to be the key to coming up with something new, then it would be from him and his ideas that we might come up with something.

Meeting up with First Aid, we sat in a side booth of The Higher Plane, a favourite hangout and unofficial student bar located just off campus. With so many students and other 'rebels' free to air their heartfelt opinions matters global, domestic or purely irrelevant, infighting was commonplace. It was an intimidating environment, and not somewhere I would visit alone. But Chromedome had insisted, claiming his cerebral circuits worked harder while under the minor influence of a cocktail of energon supplements.

His hand rubbed his tired face, the mere indication of his presence demanding the respect of his peers. "So we need to do something 'new'." He repeated, lifting his gaze from the table to look at the three of us. "Correct?" He asked rather rhetorically. We nodded. "So, any ideas?" he asked, as if his fleshless summary might actually spark a flash of inspiration.

"Augmentation?" I suggested, knowing I would gain the inevitable support of First Aid. We had worked together in the past investigating the art of retrospective upgrade. Whether it was a microchip heat sink or a complete hydraulic system overhaul, we were both interested in new technology regarding physical evolution and its practical implementation.

Chromedome's eyes rolled. He felt there was usually little or no new work in augmentation development for a programming specialist like he intended to be upon graduation. He indulged in his habit of mindlessly swinging his hinged mouth plate open and shut with the false appearance of deep thought. I knew his mind was made up before I'd finished my second syllable. With the mouth plate coming to a halt in its open position, he gulped down his last swig of energon and signalled to the drone bot for a refill. "Any other ideas?" he asked with the mouth plate now returned to its shut position. This was not a question of democracy, more the desperate opinions of someone not enthralled by the prospects of research into the redesign of limb hydraulics for the umpteenth time.

Brainstorm shrugged. "Neutro-magnetics?" he offered. This time it was my turn to grimace. I was not a fan of meddling with such a potentially harmful research programs. "Not necessarily the bomb side of the science," He furthered, with the closest resemblance of a laugh that his serious demeanour could form, "just general neutro-magnetics." He clarified. I was not convinced.

Neutro-magnetics covered atomic and sub-atomic theory and had been around for some time. But it was not until the potential for its militaristic abuse was considered that it became more widely understood. Military research in this area had turned towards electro-magnetic weaponry, their latest venture reported to include thermo-nuclear neutron bombs that could wipe out up to a third of a small city of all electronic life through the permanently destructive power of a huge electro-magnetic pulse. Quite why anyone would want to yield such power was hard for me to fathom; it was not a responsibility I would relish, certainly. Perhaps in the right hands, these Perfect Weapons, as they had been dubbed, might act as a deterrent for the minor civil wars on Cybertron to erupt into the full-scale conflict many political reporters feared.

Chromedome, however, was more interested in this area. It was, after all, a relatively new concept with relevance to his career aspirations. He cast his standard glance at First Aid, the one that wordlessly asked for his understanding on the subject.

He shrugged almost ashamed of his knowledge. "I must confess," He lied modestly, "I don't know much about it." We huddled around his personal console as he brought up what 'little' knowledge he laid claim to on the matter. The details were phenomenal as he glossed over subjects I had never even heard of, let aloud studied in the detail he had.

"But this is the one that I found most interesting." He admitted, having teased us with background for perhaps a dozen or more potential research projects already. "Sub-atomic Neural Purification." he titled, although each of us needed a little more. "Miniature neutron bombs." he explained, highlighting the screen. Instinctively Brainstorm leant in closer as I backed off slightly. "They reckon they have surgical potential." Neutron bombs, in surgery? First Aid smiled. "When I say 'miniature', I really do mean miniature." He reiterated. "Neutron bombs designed to create nano-scale electro-magnetic pulses."

"What are they good for?" asked Chromedome, his casual knowledge on the matter a parallel of my own passive understanding.

First Aid shrugged. "They're supposed to be more stable and easier to contain than larger scale weapons." He replied. "But essentially it's for viral control." He went onto explain about the problems associated with microchips infected with viruses. So he claimed, minor viruses were allowed to spread all-too-readily, and systems unable to deal with small viruses quickly found themselves with a larger scale infection. The problem, apparently, was that this resulted in minor infections requiring surgical replacement of the whole chip. "A self-activating electromagnetic pulse can be directed to disable infected areas of a microchip, preventing its spread and without damaging healthy chips." He explained. "This way infected chips that still operate with satisfactory functionality can remain functional without the risk of spreading the virus. It should cut down the amount of medical resources essentially wasted on dealing with trivial operations like partially-infected microchip replacement." He shrugged, like he always did at the conclusion of a good idea. "Maybe we could do something along those lines?" he suggested finally. The guy was a genius. Chromedome smiled and gave 'the Fizster' a playful slap on the back.

Chromedome looked like he wanted to say something, like he was deliberating over a verdict he had already made some time ago for pure melodramatic effect. "You'll do for me!" He laughed, finally, an appreciative hand firmly holding each shoulder and offering a affectionate sideways hug. I looked up at Brainstorm, who shrugged. I could not see how our opinion mattered, however, because Chromedome's mind was already made up. "Neutro-magnetics for Brainy, a payload of programming for me and Captain A-bomb over there," he smiled at me, my eyes probably narrowing at his latest loathsome reference, "gets his augmentation."

First Aid, unable to shrug because of the weight of Chromedome's grip still on his shoulders, looked at Chromedome. "And what about me?" he asked. Chromedome suggested that as it was his idea, he should put his feet up and take a break. That was just a joke, I would hope, but it was not First Aid's style. Despite his unfounded self-claims that he was not the brains behind the project, he felt his role was more hands-on. We placed First Aid in charge of prototyping the design and assisting in the evaluation process.

The project ran as smoothly as we could expect, and surpassed all our expectations. We were nominated for, and won, recognition for our contribution to the world of neutro-magnetic research, something that left me rather uncomfortable. Our award was usually reserved for militaristic advances in neutro-magnetics and as such, the presentation was made by, and in front of, a number of high-ranking representatives of the various active and inactive militaries around the planet. Their very presence unnerved me.

We each tried to enjoy our time in the spotlight as much as possible. But it came easier for Chromedome and Brainstorm; First Aid and I choosing a back seat to the most part. But there was no disguising the fact we were Iacon's star students to graduate that year and 'they' came from far and wide to offer us pre-graduation research contracts. By the time of our graduation we already had our careers mapped out.

Prior to his student days, First Aid had undertaken several medical and maintenance courses and during one such course had formed a strong bond with a senior lecturer. He had been both a friend and a mentor and was instrumental in finding the financial backing to send First Aid to Iacon. So when Hot Spot turned up at the graduation ceremony to offer First Aid a part in his new maintenance business venture, it was a done deal before the words were even uttered.

Brainstorm and Chromedome had accepted jobs in the research arm of the Autobot army, for which we had all been head-hunted specifically. Their deal would make them very wealthy, influential and would give them the scope to continue researching with the mighty backing of a military behind them. Brainstorm maintained the Autobots were not so much an army, but more a political persuasion. He could justify his involvement in their cause because the Autobots were not actively at war with anyone as such, and were involved only in peacekeeping operations policing hostile regions of knife-edge civil war. But Chromedome's defiant admission that he was in it purely for the money and recognition did not help Brainstorm in his attempts to convince me to sign up.

I did not believe in alignment to an army as a matter of principle. It was true, as Brainstorm argued, that the regions of civil unrest were brewing stormier by the day and it was possibly just a matter of time before a full-scale global war erupted. "If the unthinkable happens," he advised, "you have to make sure you're on the winning side." By which, he meant the Autobots over the Decepticons. The Decepticons were officially only of a political persuasion also, but many unofficial skirmishes around the world contained Decepticon-aligned soldiers and mercenaries, or the amalgamation of other rebellious factions into the Decepticon Army.

"I'd rather be on the right side than the winning side." I countered, to which Brainstorm conceded the point, but insisted that if there was a 'right' side, then it was the side of the Autobots and not the Decepticons. I was not convinced. I argued that any side that was prepared to go to war was not the 'right' side - both the Autobots and the Decepticons were as wrong as each other. Besides, I had found a job working for a freelance research organisation in Stanix, not aligned to any militaristic faction. The pay and the facilities were not nearly as good as those offered by the Autobots. "It's a matter of principle." I explained to Brainstorm, as if he needed to know. "We need peace, not armies." Brainstorm nodded; he knew he had already used up his best arguments without succeeding in persuading me. So after a thousand or so years studying together in the Institute, our partnership was drawing to a close; it was time to go our separate ways. Chromedome had already left; just as I had almost started to like him.

With his belongings gathered and stowed in his cargo holds, Brainstorm offered me a departing handshake of goodbye and transformed, readying himself to leave. I smiled at his last ditch attempt to persuade me to join him, reminding me his rather paltry aircraft mode (a mode not too dissimilar to my own) had been bolstered and modified at the expense of the Autobots as a welcoming gesture. I admit that it was very tempting, but I insisted my reputation of principle was more important. "You always were the stronger of us, Headwind." He beamed in his sleek new hypersonic jet form, a genuine departing compliment.

With the promise he would keep a seat warm for me at his Autobot research centre should I change my mind, I watched him leave for his new life, quickly vanishing into the unrecognisable dot in the sky. "It's a matter of principle." I reminded myself, my vision temporarily obscured by a passing freight cruiser. By the time it was restored, the only real friend I had ever made was gone.

--

CHAPTER 1 Stand And Deliver

Pause. The room was quiet save for the whispers that echoed around the chamber. Great hordes of hushed quietness bellowed into the pause. I knew I did not have their attention. My pause was too long and all I could think was how to fill the pause. The more I talked, the less I said. This had happened before. This had happened pretty much every time I had stood up to speak in the past. I shook my head again, trying to collect my thoughts. As I opened my mouth to speak once more, my fingers flexing the worn sides of the ancient lectern, the voices of others continued to speak for me. Echoed words like 'accident' prompted the attendees to switch their focus from my audio commentary to the airwaves broadcasting the Cybertronian news. I shook my nervous cooling lubricant from my face.

"The results show," I continued to an audience rapidly leaving the conference, "in these laboratory conditions," nervously I pinched my voice modulator in an attempt to quell its involuntary fluctuations. "I," I fumbled, looking around the room for inspiration, trying to find a set of optics still focused with reciprocation. "The results show," I repeated, the resonate tremble in my voice forming laughter from within, "a trend matching the predictive, er," I paused, my hands clutching the sides of the lectern to almost breaking point.

Public speakers were a mystery. They could stand up in front of five thousand robots at this, or any other convention, and speak like they were amongst friends. They would receive the attention they demanded. They would narrate a report of such consistency, that even those who could not grasp its meaning could follow with fictitious delight. The charismatic charms of these speakers served only to mock me further. Why could I not hold their attention? What made them more attentive to others? My work was of equal scientific and commercial relevance to some, and of a personal interest to others. I shook my head again.

"In conclusion," I muttered, almost to myself, almost admitting that no one was listening. I looked up again. Where was Windsweeper? My research was literally right up his street. He had even been on funding commission from the sanitation department, but now even he had gone. I had been working, mostly alone, on augmentation technology to bolster the personal security of the drone robots that patrolled the major cities of our planet, doing the jobs no self-respecting robot would do themselves. Of course, such prone mechanoids were the target of bored vandals and scavengeous technicians looking for a few extra chips. I had developed a simple, cheap but effective augmentation to ward off would-be foes. So why could I not explain this? But with Windsweeper having left, I could fantasise interest in my presentation no longer.

"In conclusion, the iron recoil energiser method is an effect method..." An effective method? Of course it's a 'method', that's what it's called! I cursed myself for my amateurish choice of words. I gave up. Now I just wanted the presentation over. "It is a cost-effective method of upgrading the standard class 15c and 15d units." I spat as a hurried sentence. I scanned the visual image on the screen, a computer-generated mock-up of such domestic drones fitted with my proposed augmentations. I looked at the all-but empty hall. "If anyone has any questions?" Of course they did not.

Out of the five thousand or so that were in attendance, perhaps just fifty or sixty faces remained in the vast room, the majority of which were no longer watching or listing to me. I looked over to the session chair. Even he had long since left. I shook my head and clicked the console to terminate my presentation and headed off the stage.

Traditionally, the final research presentations of long-running conference tend to be neglected. After a week or so attending talks and exposИs on matters of scientific novelty, CPUs became saturated to the point of boredom. Attendance for final lectures was always low, but today was poor by anybody's standard. "I guess I should officially close this session?" I suggested from the side of the stage, seeing as there was no one left to do so. "Ah, can it." I muttered to myself and walked off the stage.

It was perhaps eight or nine hundred years since my graduation. I was stuck in a dead-end research syndicate in a small pocket of Iacon. I had no friends; over the years my one-time work colleagues had in the main left their companies and signed onto the more profitable military institutions. My work was far less ground-breaking. That was why my presentations were always towards the end of the conferences. That is why my being ignored was not new to me. I shrugged. That's life, I suppose.

I had tried to remain loyal to the principles I had held in such steadfast regard during my many conversations, debates and arguments with my friends and foes. During my years, I had worked in Stanix for Unicorps, NSB, Augmento, Railon Industries, Future inc., Radical Sparks, White Chip, LLBO, and a whole host of other research organisations. But when my most recent company, Acumen Visions, went the way of my previous employers, I was in no position to clutch onto my dreams any longer.

The few remaining independent companies were either being bought out by military research institutions, or simply going out of business. Even the universities and other such organisations were, in the main, politically aligned these days, including my former Institute which was now funded by the Autobots. So it came as no surprise when Acumen Visions was bought out by Milatech.

Unlike other buyouts, Milatech claimed independence from military factions. While their work was primarily militaristic, their affiliation was loyal only to the highest bidder. It pained me to stay with Milatech. I hated everything they stood for, but at least I was able to work on the semi-civilian side of their research, such as the security of domestic and governmental drones. Mostly I was working on defences and had managed to avoid researching offensive weapons. The truth was, it was just a matter of time.

And, again, unlike the other buyouts of the past, the option of finding civilian funding simply did not exist. I did not have the self-supporting resources to finance my own independent company. So when Milatech offered me a transfer to their final remaining semi-civilian research arm as an alternative to their pure military research, I felt their no choice but to accept.

This had led to a transfer back to Iacon and the domestic laboratories of Milatech. Perhaps things would not be so bad? Maybe I could catch up with Brainstorm. But, as I gathered, he was no longer in Iacon. He was probably at some secret research centre in the middle of nowhere. Once again, I was alone.

The conference was over. I was frustrated. I did not care for the post-conference festivities and entertainment. What was there to be happy about? The planet was on the brink of war. Everything I did was for the good of one faction or another via the bankroll of the audaciously benevolent Milatech. My job satisfaction had sunk to an all-time low. Life was about counting the days since the last silver lining, not about counting the days before I would find another. Depression is a dangerous justification for wallowing in self-pity, and that was where I was heading.

Flying away from the conference in my slow, low-level aircraft mode I aimed casually for my home where I might indulge in a few cans of cheap-grade energon to fuel my desolation. The dreams I once had about a world without the militaristic tension we had endured all our lives were distant memories, all-but gone. I wanted to help our intelligent race develop into the species the galaxy could be proud of. To see the potential talent of this planet disappearing into the gutter in this way left me angry.

I generally tried to avoid the news these days. It was all hurt and hate. But there was something about today that made me wonder just what was going on. Everyone had gone. It was not just that everyone left my presentation early. That was to be expected at the end of a long drawn-out conference. But there was no one outside; no one adorned the street-level hyperways, my low-level flight envelopes, nor the skies above me. Perhaps it was time to tune into the news airwaves and find out what the world was up to these days. It was not as if life could get any worse, could it?

Of course it could.

I joined mid-interview. "...can only be estimated as between one and ten million. We simply don't know for sure." uttered the despicable voice of Redeye, the governor of Grat, an immoral and conscience-less individual that made Milatech's principles appear humane by comparison. Grat was a blossoming city, spurred by expensive and extensive Military support by the rich Decepticon affiliate Shockwave, the ruling governor of Tarn.

The neutron program and all its associated evils, as I saw them, was the latest scientific craze to be undermined by the greed-fuelled and ambitious Autobots and Decepticons, and a few other non-aligned agencies. My very own Milatech was probably involved in similar work somewhere on the planet. Everyone knew that the neutron program was risky. It involved the creation of electromagnetic pulses, the abuse of which would rank as probably the most dangerous weapon against robotic life forms such as us.

I had always maintained that conducting experiments with them would end in disaster, but this sense of being right came as no comfort when I continued to listen to the report. Grat had, apparently, all-but ceased to exist. An 'accident' epicentred in the city had unleashed a self-powered super-critical electromagnetic pulse indiscriminately nullifying every last transistor and diode in a 20 mile radius. I was stunned, like the pulse wave had crippled me too; I nearly fell from the sky. And this sense of shock stayed with me, and everyone on the planet, for days or weeks even.

It was a week or so before I managed to prise myself from my televisual monitors broadcasting pictures from Grat and return to work and that was because Acumen, my supervisor and founder and one-time owner of the company Milatech took over, had called me in specifically. With what he had to say it was as if good news was illegal these days,

"I need you to go to Grat." He explained. I was stunned. Grat was the last place I wanted to visit. I had seen the dumbfounding images on the screen and I had no wish to see them first hand. The city was dead, every last electronic chip erased, all life ceasing in an indiscriminately efficient way. The only evidence that the video footage was live feed and not still photography was the burning flames from a few buildings where broken cooling systems had caused fires. "They are holding a conference on The Accident." he continued, the event in question now known in this seemingly trivial way. "They want to discuss neutro-magnetic weaponry."

"Why me?" I asked sternly. "I've got nothing to do with neutro-magnetics. I never really have done either." I reminded him.

"I know." He admitted. "That's why I want you to go." He explained that after the conference a number of research programmes would probably be banned. "People tend to over-compensate." He continued. "Rationality goes out after something like this. They'll be calling for a blanket ban."

"A good thing in my opinion." I muttered.

"I don't care about your opinion." replied Acumen. "We have to send someone and the truth is you're the only one I trust not to ask any stupid questions." I understood. By keeping quiet, it might be possible to find loopholes around bans. But if someone were to speak out at the time the laws are being written, it is possible the loopholes would be closed before they opened. "Quite frankly, you don't know enough about the area to say the wrong thing and give away our competitive edge." Acumen made a few calls and all was arranged. I was going to Grat.

--

CHAPTER 2 The Other Side

To say Grat was an eerie place did not go far enough. This ultra-modern city with its scholars, students and scientists was now dead. It really got to everyone there. It was simply daunting. What amplified my feelings was the thought that the dead city of Grat in which I now stood could easily have been Iacon, Devan or any of the other cities where I worked in the past.

Despite the enormous security presence, there was an overwhelming, but largely peaceful, demonstration outside of the conference hall. Thousands of civilians were there to bad-mouth each and every one of us representing our Military research agencies. Their jaunting sneers and wordless visage accused us of working for the 'other' side, possibly agents of Unicron sent to kill Primus with the audacity of suicidal cult. They were not stupid. They knew what had happened. And with Cybertron itself so close to being destroyed by an error with repercussions of such a deadly magnitude, it was not hard to see why we were collectively despised by the religious sectors that that gather to show their dismay. One such icon stood out from, or rather above, the crowd, his arms aloft, his voice charged with merciless venom.

"Primus demands vengeance for this blasphemy!" He preached. "Our God will rise and fuel each of us, strengthening us to seek and destroy those that dare to oppose His name!" A few security personnel led by a red truck transformed and pushed their way through the crowd to where the speaker stood elevated upon a makeshift platform. "And He shall be victorious over the forces of Evil!" He continued defiantly. "He shall summon the unity of our race and stop the Evil-doers!" he prophesised. "Shame!" He cried. "Shame on you disciples of Evil!" His delivery directed at me and those around me trying to enter the building. "Forever shall you be known as the scourge who tried to destroy our Lord! Let Cybertron applaud the perils that await those that defy our Master! Let..." The interruption of his speech was more striking than its actual content. Having forced my way to the top of the steps I turned back to see the preacher being held in a headlock the red security guard with the same zeal for his job as he had for his own work. This action only further outraged the masses and I returned to my own fight to get inside.

There was something altogether disturbing about the meeting hall we all now found ourselves within. The glow of the mobile lighting system was a reminder that this building mirrored the rest of the city in its deactivity. The electronic doors had been forced open and held fast by mechanical stoppers. There were a few more faces in the room than I had thought would be there; those of public esteem and those that through time would go on to make their accolades.

My mind was wandering. I cannot recall my exact thoughts but I remember thinking how incredibly serious this situation we found ourselves in was. We were on the brink of war and yet somehow everyone in this room, despite their inevitable hatred for each other, were somehow to bury their differences on this matter and outlaw the very weapons that might one day ensure an outcome to war whose victory no one could truly lay claim. They talked of neutron bombs and the plight such Perfect Weapons might cause should they ever be used in warfare, or indeed, misused by accidents like Grat.

I felt disgusted. How could they talk so trivially about the strength of these super-weapons, weapons that readily kill millions? At least they were now ready to admit their mistakes. With neutron bombs they had passed the proverbial mark, not by an overstep, but by a giant leap. All the militaries and research organisations accepted the decision to outlaw all neutron bomb research, weapons of such magnitude have no place on a planet like ours; we could not risk a neutron war, there was too much at stake.

Bad enough would be the death of entire cities, terminated almost beyond recognition like Grat, but worse was the risk of a Neutron-Induced Super-Critical Electromagnetic (or NISCEM) pulse that might propagate the surface of Cybertron, a self-powered wave that devoured Cybertron of its lush energised atmosphere, sterilising every transistor. Surely this ban was a good thing? So why did I feel there was something missing, or possibly something extra. Something bothered me, that much was for sure.

On the way out I pushed past the waiting mob of angry civilians lombarding us with insults as they had done on our entry. I ignored their jeering, knowing they could not understand what I knew. Their accusations of evil-doing and alignment with the devil made no impact. Forging a clearing, I reverted to my aircraft mode and took to the skies and flew back to Iacon in search of the one silver lining on this clouded day.

He was already waiting for me. A reciprocal smile signified our mutual acknowledgement and I walked over to his table. "Nice paint job." I commented casually to break the ice. Brainstorm instinctively looked to the bright red insignia he now sported. He shrugged equally casually, like he had forgotten it was there, which he probably had done so.

Soon after the Accident Brainstorm had contacted me. There was something almost psychic about us. I knew I wanted to speak with him once more. It had been too long. I had told him I was not going to Grat, but that he could find me in Iacon afterwards. As it turned out, with Acumen pushing me to go, I could have met him Grat after all, but I did not want to spend any longer in that horrific hell-hole any longer than absolutely necessary.

"You're looking well." He commented. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was depressed to an almost clinical degree. My mind was saturated with my blind acceptance of the daily cycle of my mundane existence. But the shellshock of Grat had somehow pushed my trivial personal problems aside. It had somehow excavated through my mind, finding a whole new chamber to infect with the additional weight of the trauma associated with Grat and the horrific accident. I could not help but think the draining of my psychological trust replaced by the slag of distrust, plugged by a barrier of cynicism, had made a physical impact. I had very little pride in my appearance anymore, but I accepted his remark anyway as recognition for the few minor upgrades I had surgically augmented myself with.

"Yeah," I lied for conversation's sake, half-raising an arm half-twisted at the shoulder to expose a cooling system I had installed to reduce heat fatigue in my joints. "Added them a few years back." I explained. "Increases heat dispersement by a good thirty-five percent." I concluded more as a fact than for the sake of bragging rights. "You should get yourself a couple." I suggested.

Brainstorm smiled and raised an arm of his own. "Already got a couple." he grinned. "Consider it a perk of the job." He needed not explain that the Autobots had probably poured more investment into these sorts of minor upgrades than Milatech and the others had invested in me over the past thousand years. I took a seat and we sat in silence for a moment. Our lives had taken such different paths since our last encounter it was difficult to know what to say, where to begin, or how to react. "Hey, watch this." He smiled and with a nod a face-flap automatically appeared, sliding in from the sides covering his mouth with a plate not dissimilar to that of Chromedome. I nodded, rather unimpressed. "They're all the rage." He smiled (probably). "Keeps the dust out of your throat."

Even from our brief conversation I could see that Brainstorm had changed. He had been uninterested with trivial gimmicks, gadgets and gizmos. He was not into such flagrant commercialism. He was into living for the good of society. He was into researching to improve robot-kind. But his move to the Autobots had changed all that. He clearly had more wealth than he knew what to do with and as such had been lulled into frivolous materialism. But that was his decision, and good luck to him.

There was no disguising the sombre atmosphere, but it was easier to blame that on Grat than the way our friendship had drifted apart, and accordingly we did. I cannot recall who started the conversation, but to avoid the subject was impossible. We were scientists, after all, and this was the biggest scientific news of our lifetimes.

"How come you went there?" He asked. "I mean, you're hardly hell-bent on building neutron bombs, are you?" He joked. I smiled. It was true. My interest in neutromagnetics had begun and ended with our final year project with which we had enjoyed so much success in the Institute. I explained the morals Acumen had plundered from me and his reasons for my being here.

"Apparently to send someone of any real relevance to the neutron program would detract them from their job." I concluded.

Brainstorm sighed. "Which, presumably, is to continue their work on the neutron program?" He speculated, closing the cycle. I nodded and suggested the news upon my return would be far from favourable. "A blanket ban on neutron bombs is probably a good thing, in hindsight." He admitted, reluctantly. It was clear this was the field in which he had been still working for the Autobots, but when I asked about it he kindly, but forcefully, reminded me his work was classified. I understood, but I could take that as a 'yes'.

"So what are you going to do now?" I asked after a momentary pause.

"Oh, I'll be okay." He predicted modestly. "There's plenty of work to be done outside that area. I'm sure I'll find something." Who was he kidding? His future was mapped out and if there was work to be done, he could do it. Replacing his emptied can on the table for a second, he allowed another smile to escape from his serious perimeter, before ordering a fresh round of energon drinks. We sat in silence a little longer until the drinks bot had delivered our order. Brainstorm sighed taking a couple of swigs of his drink. "Still beats me why you never joined the Autobots." He murmured with a slight concern he might be dredging up old memories with ill-effect. "They have a more 'civilian' side to their work too. They really aren't the bad guys." He persisted.

"They're still the military." I retorted casually. "That makes them the bad guys in my book."

"You work for Milatech." He counter-argued.

I smiled uneasily, knowing I was going to have to work hard to justify my current employers. "I'm working in their civil defence branch." I replied, a little more confident of my answer. "I know it's not ideal an ideal position, but it's the best of a bad bunch." I admitted. "And besides, they haven't taken any sides - they remain neutral, officially at least."

"There's a fine line between being a free-lance neutral," began Brainstorm, "and being a mercenary." I frowned. Despite our difference in opinion, I was confident I was working for the most neutral of companies I could. It was true that the majority of Milatech's contracts were being funded by the Decepticons, but they were simply the highest bidder. It made business sense. If the Autobots had dug deeper, I had no doubt that Milatech would have been working for them. But Brainstorm argued the rumours that the Decepticons were one small step from buying Milatech outright.

I shrugged. "If," as I emphasised heavily, "if that happens, then I'll review my position." I promised.

But Brainstorm was adamant that he did not want to be on opposing sides of a war. "You're my oldest friend." He explained without trying to disguise the emotional blackmail. "I don't want to see you get hurt." I acknowledged his concern, before the silence returned. "You know," started Brainstorm, trying to change the subject, and returning his energon can to the table. He looked a little uncomfortable with his forthcoming confession. I could almost predict what he was about to say, and I understood why he had difficulty in saying it and why I had difficulty in coaxing it from him. "You know, I've got money." He stammered, his eyes refocusing from the table to look into my own. "I was thinking," he began, "I was thinking I might go into business of my own." I nodded. "And I could probably use an extra pair of hands." he offered, a charitable sentiment partially shrouded by a genuine business proposition.

I thanked Brainstorm for the offer and promised I'd think about it, but reminded him of our all-too-clear situation. "No one is offering contracts for civilian research anymore. I should know - I've been on the look-out for years." I explained. He nodded, as if he did not already know this.

"But when all this," he paused with a circular nod to represent some degree of our environment, "when all this blows over," he repeated, "then I'll be ready." I told him to give me a call.

But when would that be? When would all 'this' blow over? That was anyone's guess, but the popular rumours were that a global war was unavoidable. Predictions of quite how long that would last ranged from days to years. But tension had been loading for centuries, perhaps now was the logical time to let off some steam. Some analysts even thought it would be good for Cybertron. A short war between equally well-equipped sides would quickly come to nought. Once they realise neither side can win outright, peace negotiations would be a formality. Most of Cybertron would be unaffected, so they speculated, and then the whole planet could then benefit from the economical boom that follows some time after a war and the planet's natural regeneration would undergo another cycle. Others disagreed, claiming that pre-war negotiations may be tense and filled with distrust, but are ultimately better for society because no one gets hurt. In my spark, I agreed with the latter, but I knew for the long-term prospects of Cybertron it was better to get it over and done with, that way companies can get back to civil research rather than the evils of military support, as I saw them.

"I have to get going." admitted Brainstorm reluctantly, finishing the remainder of his drink. "I take it I still can't get you working for the Autobots before it's too late?" He joked. I smiled, reminding him that according to Brainstorm, through Milatech I was already practically a Decepticon. "Heathen!" he laughed at my allegiance to the 'other' side in this yet-to-be announced war.

I was still of the same stubborn principles he knew of me. It would not look fair to ditch Milatech after they had funded me, certainly not for me to join the 'other' side. That would be simply immoral. If I were to work for either side it should, technically, be the Decepticons if only as a question of honour and disclosure. "But I promise not to shoot you!" I laughed. But Brainstorm knew I had no intention of joining either side unless I was forced.

We offered each other a friendly departing gesture for a moment and Brainstorm's voice became serious. "But if the unthinkable should happen," by which he meant the predicted war, coining the phrase once more, "look after yourself and see your way through to the end." He advised. "Keep out of trouble and I'll give you that call." I assured him I would do so. "See you around." finished Brainstorm, undertaking his now trademark combination leap and transformation manoeuvre, blasting into the skies.

--

CHAPTER 3 Peace Of Mind In Mind

The Accident in Grat had a profound effect on many levels. On a personal level I found myself forever wrestling with my conflicting emotions. I felt the anger of the protesting religious sectors that adorned the streets of Grat for our visit. I could sympathise with their parallel incitement of violence against the oppressors, the Disciples of Evil as they (we) were called. Scientists had no right to be meddling with weapons of such power. They got what they deserved, in the strange hypocrisy of pacifism. The conference had succeeded. In the majority there was little opposition to the ban on neutro-magnetic warfare. The Accident woke the planet and reminded us there was a line to be drawn. As I described earlier, Grat did not just overstep the mark, Grat took a running jump.

So with the various Militaries agreeing to the Grat Pact, as it became known, to disarm any neutron bombs and to cease their neutron research programmes, the peace-lovers had claimed a moral victory. It was true that the impact of their protests may have made were trivial compared to The Accident itself which had caused the real shake-up, but the point was the line had at least now been recognised.

Yet at the same time, I felt somehow the point had been missed by some. Was it that Acumen and the others at Milatech and beyond would no-doubt attempt to find ways around this line through technicalities and loopholes? No, I do not think so, there was something else. There was a feeling of unity, being in this together. Warring factions from around the planet had congregated in Grat for the conference and if the popular media broadcasters were to be believed, this terrible Accident might forge new bonds between opposing sides, paving the way towards renewed peace talks. Again, this must have been a good thing? If this was not the point, what was?

Despite the illusion of unity, I never felt more alone, like the feeling of anger I had repressed for so long had an additional agenda. It was not enough that I should despise those that gave research a bad name and that I should side with the protesters against their terrible work. It was not enough that this Accident had pooled together minds of reason to say 'enough' and cease their explosion into this technological wonderland. Nor was it enough that a few minor political and military skirmishes promised peace talks with the conclusion of the Pact. There was something missing; there was an opportunity going begging and no one was willing to take it. What that opportunity was, I still could not quite grasp, but there was something that did not add up.

And, as such, in my ever-stubborn outlook on life, coupled with my manic depression, I was unable to see the positives of this horrific event against the backdrop of negatives. Despite the visualisation of the line, it was a matter of time before it was crossed once more, and despite the ending of relatively minor civil conflicts, the prospect of a global war loomed ever threateningly. My views of pessimism countered those of my colleagues, leaving a sense of alienation and dissatisfaction.

With my research project for the augmentation of governmental sanitation drones concluded, I made my report to Acumen on the conference alongside the official release of the convention, the Grat Pact. I chose to omit my personal thoughts on the matter; there was no need to burden my supervisor with my emotional imbalances. It was at this time that a now familiar turn of events chose to present itself. In customary fashion, my life somehow found a new low to sink to as Acumen announced that the final semi-civilian wing of Milatech had been abolished.

"It's not all bad news." He claimed, contrary (in my opinion) to his forthcoming statement. "Our department has been relocated to new facilities." He smiled. How could he be happy with this decision? His 'department' had spawned from his own company prior to its takeover by Milatech. It had been moved from site to site around Stanix before being offloaded to Iacon to free up resources for more militaristic applications. His life's work of assembling his team of top researchers had been shattered, yet he continued to smile. Clearly his accruement of wealth as a result had more than made up for this. "No one is being made redundant." He continued, bringing up a computer screen and tapping a few keys. "We've all been offered a relocation package." He repeated. "And some of our more valued employees," he nodded politely as an implied reference to me, "have a number of options."

'Options' was hardly the word I would have used. I had been offered the chance to work directly for the Decepticon military in their aeronautical weapons branch in Polyhex. I was, so they claimed, lucky enough to have been selected to work in their rocketry department, something to do with upgrading the standard Decepticon Seeker design with more stabilised rocket-launching platforms in their robot modes. Augmentation work once more, something that may have sounded tempting, were it not for helping soldiers massacre other soldiers. I politely declined.

Number two suggested I relocate to Tarn. I did not even read the rest of the file. I had no desire to set foot with a thousand miles of Shockwave, let alone work for his department. It was he who funded the research programme in Grat that had left millions dead. It was he was almost responsible for the death of Cybertron itself. If the NISCEM pulse had continued to propagate around the planet, the colossal impact of the wave meeting itself from the other direction would have redirected it in any number of directions, including the planet's core, which would have resulted in planetary meltdown. Shockwave was evil. Yet somehow, he had managed to emerge as if he were the hero, allowing those few that had survived the cull passage to Tarn to continue their work there. Silently I vowed there and then never to work for that one-eyed hypocrite.

Finally there was Taggon, a couple of hundred miles south of Stanix, and an area I knew reasonably well. They were interested in a research project I had undertaken nearly a millennium ago, namely my Sub-atomic Neural Purification project I had enjoyed so much success in with Brainstorm and the others. They wanted me to research into a more adaptable augmentation that soldiers could be fitted with to ease the strain on Field Medics, who were an increasingly valuable commodity.

Technically, there was a fourth choice, to quit Milatech and leave their psychotic industry behind. But I had no money, nowhere to go and nothing left, apparently, to live for. It was like some higher power was ebbing away at my confidence for fun until I conceded. I did. It was a simple choice in the end, and I moved to Taggon.

During the next couple of years, Cybertron changed beyond recognition. The much-prophesised war between the Autobot army and that of the Decepticons finally erupted. No one really knew who started it, but rumour had it that the Decepticons first attacked the Autobot-held city of Kaon, not too far from Taggon. Taggon, Stanix and now Kaon amongst other areas, were held by Megatron. The Decepticons were split into a number of sub-factions, led predominantly by Megatron in this region where I worked, but also by Shockwave in Tarn, Scorponok, who was based in Ricon, Starscream (in Vos) and Lord Straxus who ruled from Polyhex. Straxus was also the unofficial commander of all the Decepticons, a position that seemed to be constantly contested by Megatron.

The goal of the Decepticons were clear; domination. Straxus claimed that the skirmishes rife around the planet halted Cybertron's social and technological evolution. It was unfair that the selfish conflicts of others should deny Cybertron the natural progress it deserved. The Decepticons invaded 'troublesome' areas, hot-spots of violence. Regions like Carina, at war with itself through civil conflict for some time, had been quashed by the heavy-handed 'peace-keeping' strategies of the Decepticons. The reality was that the Decepticons were annexing power from local governments that they had no right to take.

But with the smaller regions now under Decepticon control, it was clear they were not content with 'peace-keeping' troublesome hot-spots, but they were bent on also taking over cities that were not at war. Their shrouded excuse of ethnic cleansing exposed as a fraud, the Autobots, the natural opposition to these tactics, had succeeded in acquiring a number of rebellious factions and amalgamating them into their own army. It seemed to me the Autobots wanted power as much as the Decepticons, but with media propaganda rife, it was hard to differentiate them. Like I said, both sides were as evil as each other, so far as I was concerned.

I came to that conclusion for the fifth time that day as I listened subconsciously to the media airwaves in the laboratory. I was working on my medical upgrade prototype for Milatech and was distinctly worried by my progress. Work was going too well, and it would be just a matter of short time before my project was complete and the mass production of my design hit the factories to bolster the defences of Decepticon soldiers. What worried me was what to expect afterwards. Most of my colleagues were now working on weaponry. It was as if nothing else mattered. It seemed inevitable that I was heading the same way, something I dreaded. But despite what the future may or may not have in store for me, I could at least take pride in the fact my work was competent and, more importantly, might save lives one day.

I saved a couple of results files on my console and released the clamps holding my test specimen in place and removed the chip. "Looking good there, Headwind." observed Grennis, a colleague working in the same laboratory on a new small-arms release mechanism, something that improved the rate-of-fire of conventional pistols to deadlier effect. He was new to Taggon, having transferred in from some place or other, and his knowledge of me stretched little further than mine of him.

He was a Decepticon, not a Neutralist like me. His presence here, one of Milatech's top research institutes, was an open indication of collaboration between the so-called neutral Milatech and the Decepticons. The truth was that Milatech had lost its independence in an all-but official capacity ever since they closed my department in Iacon. Yet I was defiant. Even though I was the only unbranded robot in the facility, I did not care. I was not a Decepticon, and they could never force me to become one.

Out of all my colleagues, Grennis was perhaps the only one I had any time for. I did not particularly like him, for he had chosen to join the ranks of an Army that advocated the forceful occupation of aggressive and peaceful colonies alike. However, he was the only one who seemed to take any interest in my work and had actively commended me for my efforts to help the troops, those on the Front Line. "What are you working on?" He asked, as if he did not know.

I shrugged. "Same old stuff." I commented passively with a slight shrug. Grennis asked how close I was to finishing. "Too close." I sighed, the subtlety of the situation probably lost on him. For a few minutes Grennis continued to set up his rig on the opposing bench while I examined my test specimen more closely.

"I've got to say," began Grennis to break the silence, "you really are a mystery." He laughed. My wordless glance up asked him to explain. "I mean, here you are, one of the best heads in the department and you're working on medikits." He smiled. I reminded him my augmentation device was to be fitted to soldiers as an upgrade and was a little more sophisticated than a medikit. He told me once more that once I finished the project I should sign up to the Decepticons as an aligned scientist, citing expense accounts and more exciting ventures. I laughed to myself. If Brainstorm had no luck in getting me on the side of the Autobots, then Grennis had little chance of converting me into a Decepticon, "I mean, you clearly love all this stuff." by which he meant weaponry research. I grimaced, adamant this was not true. "Look," he pointed, "you've even got a neutron bomb in your hands right now!" I looked down at the test chip I was holding. True, there were elements of neutro-magnetics in my project, an area partially outlawed by the Grat Pact, but justified by moral and legal half-truths.

"This technology was designed to help, not kill." I reminded him. "That hardly counts as..."

I was interrupted. "Technically you're breaking the Grat Pact." He laughed. "I'm going to report you!"

My head tilted, an expression of my opinion of his 'jokes'. Grennis was starting to remind me of Chromedome far too much for my liking. "Technically," I corrected him, "this conforms to the Anodian Amendment." I explained. Predictably, several Amendments had been made to the Grat Pact since its introduction, some to close loopholes, and others to allow more genuine research like mine to continue. "Technically," I repeated, "there's nothing wrong with what I'm doing."

"Ah-ha!" insisted Grennis walking around the bench to speak closer to me, "technically, maybe, but morally, you're breaking the Pact." He suggested. I had endured this conversation too many times in the past, and today was going to be yet another repetition. Besides, who was he to preach about morals? He belonged to the Decepticons, after all. "Yes," He admitted. "But I'm a Decepticon," he smiled, "I'm allowed to be immoral. It's practically written into the deal." He pointed at the space on my chest where an insignia might have been found had I joined either the Autobots or the Decepticons. "You're supposed to be a Neutralist." He explained. "You're supposed to be moral."

"There's nothing immoral about my work." I snapped.

"So as long as you can morally justify it then all's okay?" He asked. I nodded. "Then what if I could morally justify building a neutron bomb? Would that be okay too?"

"Of course not." I argued, mentally trying to define the difference between a bomb designed to destroy infected parts of a microchip nanometres in length and a bomb designed to murder ten million civilians. Grennis smiled. He had succeeded in winding me up; his work was done.

"You ever made a bomb?" He asked causally. My look told him that was a stupid question. "No?" He asked, surprised by my reaction. "It's easy." He boasted. He tapped away at a few keys on my console, despite my rather feeble pleas for him to stop what he was doing and return to his own work. "See?" He asked, pointing at the monitor's new content. "All you need to do is see what you're doing and think 'bigger'." He smiled, pointing at the blueprint designs for a neutron bomb that now displayed for all to see. I did not know nor cared where he had dredged those plans from. I pushed past him and closed the images, afraid 'my' actions might get reported as the content of my console was my responsibility, regardless of who may or may not have been misusing it.

"Hey!" chilled Grennis, his hands raised slightly. "Don't go off on one!" He suggested as I frantically returned my console to the state it was in before he fiddled with it. "Look I'm just saying that the principles are the same as what you are doing." He explained. "Okay, you need a fuel source and a bunch of electronics, obviously," he began, "but whack a diaclonic accelerator on the side and a rig up a spatial ioniser you've got yourself a neutron bomb." He finished. My expression told him I was not impressed; I did not have any wish to know how to make a full-scale neutron bomb. "Imagine it, a medikit with a difference!" He laughed, turning to walk back around the bench to his own side, his hands forming an explosion gesture to himself, and laughing once more.

In a way he was right, there were many similarities between my work and the work that caused the Accident, but the difference in scale was almost immeasurably large. If I were to have an 'Accident', then my 'Grat' would be about the size of my finger, not a whole city. The strange thing was that we had had these playful confrontations in the past, yet today was different. Maybe it was the reality of the war sinking in, and in a way I had refused so far to let it.

Brainstorm had predicted the war would be over in a year. So much for that idea. How had this war come so far? It was plain to see that neither side could beat the other, not conventionally. There were literally millions, billions perhaps, of troops on each side, with both forces recruiting additional resources every day. Why could they not see that no one could win this war? Did no one want peace? I shook my head, trying to clear myself of these thoughts once more, or at least for long enough for me to finish what I was doing. But that was never going to happen.

"Grennis?" I muttered finally.

"Uh-huh?" He mumbled in reply, still setting up some equipment.

"You, er, ever make one?" I asked.

"A neutron bomb?" He asked, surprised. I nodded. "Er, sure." He answered nervously. "I mean, off the record." He clarified. I nodded again and asked him how that made him feel. He placed his equipment on the bench and looked at me. "I don't know, really." I explained.

I nodded once more. "So why did you do it?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I guess I was just curious." He confessed. "I guess I just wanted to know how one works and to see if I knew as much about them as I thought I did."

"And did you?" I wondered.

"I remember thinking it was a stupid thing to do, and destroying it afterwards." He confessed. "So I'd say take that as a 'yes'." I nodded again, like it was all I was capable of. "What are you going to do?" He asked. "Report me?" He laughed.

I smiled. "No." I replied. "I just wondered, that's all."

"Yeah, well, that's what we do." He went on. "We're scientists. We wonder and we get curious." He defined. "It's in our nature to want to find out how things work." I nodded again; for once I was in complete agreement. Grennis looked out of the window for a moment at a passing hover car. "I mean, it's not as if it does any harm." He justified. "I mean," he continued, reusing his most popular sentence-starter, "I was hardly going to detonate it, was I?" He laughed again.

"No." I concurred, giving him a friendly look of suspicion.

Grennis laughed. "Okay! You got me!" He smiled. "Yeah, I was about to wipe out half of Taggon." He jested. I smiled. "But seriously," he continued, "it may have been a stupid thing to do, but it doesn't hurt to try to challenge oneself once in a while and tinker around with a bit of kit in your own time. But I mean, we were both at Grat for the conference. We've both seen what a neutron bomb is capable of." I nodded. "We know how volatile they can be and I'll never build one again. Like I said, I was just curious." Grennis picked up another chunk of equipment and positioned it on the bench for his experiment. "I mean, everyone knows how they work." He continued, his reference of 'everyone' encompassing the scientific community. To the common robot, the complexities of neutron bomb design would remain enigmatic for eternity. "It's just that no one is stupid enough to want to use one."

"No." I agreed. "Neutron bombs are outlawed for a very good reason."

This time it was his turn to nod. "And, thank Primus, Straxus isn't stupid enough to allow them to be developed. He knows how dangerous they can be." He paused for a moment in thought. "Can you imagine what would happen if someone psycho got hold of the design?" he peered through his serious eyes and shuddered at the thought. I also thought about it and it disturbed me. With perhaps five or ten neutron bombs 'some psycho' could wipe out all of Taggon, me included, or if (by some small chance) one of them went super-critical and started a chain reaction, Taggon might go the way of Grat with just one bomb.

That night I found myself at home drinking a typically-large number of energon drinks. I was depressed because I knew that as soon as my project was over, I was going to have to be relocated once more. Taggon was under siege. Around six hundred miles away, the Autobots were attacking the region and the war was on the brink of hitting the city itself. The Decepticons had been recruiting relentlessly, training conscripts and volunteers alike. The Autobots in this region, led by their highly decorated field commander, Ultra Magnus, had made a real push for Taggon and the city was going to get messy.

I came to the conclusion that a future with Milatech in Taggon did not hold any real prospects. I would, no-doubt, be moved on to another city where my options would be few and far between. I would probably end up working directly for the Decepticons designing rockets or even bombs for them. I physically shook at that thought. What was worse, I might end up working for Shockwave and his department, something I could not live with.

I could not live with it. That thought lingered around a little longer as I finished the remainder of my drink. I could not live with it. I sat up and tossed my empty can across the room to the pile in the corner that formed an overflow to my refuse container. So why should I live with it? I shrugged at myself. I stood up and looked at the reflective panel that stood full-height against a wall. I walked over and examined my dirty, weak and rough form. "I don't need to stand for this." I slurred to myself reaching out and taking yet another can from the cabinet.

As I opened the fuel container I felt my mind whirring, like all the ideas I had shunned during my depressing years working freelance had come back to haunt me. As thought after thought filtered through my tired CPU I saw my reflection smile, something I had not done at alone without the stimulus of an amusing friend or anecdote for longer than I cared to remember. It was if a wave of clarity had struck, a tsunami that washed away all my troubles leaving me cleansed and with a purpose. As idea after idea struck, each more promising than the last, I hurried over to my console and sat down.

I had to find Brainstorm. I had to tell him. I thought for a moment, wondering how I was going to get in touch with a top-level Autobot scientist that was thousands of miles away in a secret installation somewhere. My fingers tapped uncontrollably on the keyboard with no effect. My rush of inspiration was leading nowhere. The truth was, I had no way of contacting him. Angry, I stood up and lashed my near-full can of fuel to the ground and kicked it across the room.

Calming, another thought struck. Perhaps this was not a bad thing. Perhaps Brainstorm was not who I was looking for. He was, after all, my friend and I did not like to mix business with pleasure, certainly not with what I had planned. No, I needed someone else. But who? Lord Straxus? Heck, I could not even find Polyhex on a map, let alone arrange a meeting with the highest commander of the Decepticon Army. Nor indeed could I envisage talking to Optimus Prime, the recently emerged leader of the Autobots. Besides, they were not right. I needed someone else, someone powerful, but who could think along my lines. Shockwave? I laughed to myself and reconsidered.

Then who? Grennis? No. I racked my brains for some time and I was unable to put a face to the party I required. I knew I could not do this alone and for all the acquaintances I had made over the years I also knew that none of them were suitable, such was the nature of my friendships with others and the job I had in mind. I needed a partnership with a more unlikely and altogether unsavoury character.

The next day I marched straight into Skylab's office, the home of my latest supervisor within Milatech. He was talking to Outburst, another Milatech high-flyer and my crude interruption had clearly disturbed them. I handed them a file, and their expressions of surprised pleasure thinking I had concluded my project early were quickly replaced by concern when they saw my notice of resignation accompanied what turned out to be a rather rushed final report. The previous night, in my rather inebriated state, I concocted it concluding my 'medikit' augmentation project. It was a weak report and for a while I considered not bothering, but I felt obliged to offer some sets of results in exchange for the time and effort they had invested in me over the years.

My decision to quit my job came as quite a shock. My supervisors initially thought I was requesting a transfer to a less hostile region of Cybertron. I could almost see them preparing to offer me the chance to relocate to Tarn and to work with Shockwave. I saved them the bother and explained I was leaving not just leaving Milatech in Taggon, but quitting Milatech for good. No more transfers, no more projects, no more nightmares of being forced to work on weapons.

They seem worried, perhaps that I was about to defect to the Autobots (even though technically I was never a Decepticon and I was within my rights to join them if I wanted). They did everything in their power to stop me, short of physically restraining me. They may even have tried that if I had not explained where I was headed. "I want to join the Decepticons." I announced. Skylab and Outburst looked at each other. At an official level, Milatech and the Decepticons were separate organisations, but when all was said and done, affiliation with Milatech was practically admission of being a Decepticon already these days. However, with confirmation that I was not about to join the Autobots I saw each of them exhibit a sigh of relief. They tried once more to mention the vacancy in Tarn, but I had another shock to add to their catalogue of surprises for the day. "No." I persisted. "I'm not joining as a scientist." I explained. "I'm signing on as a soldier on the Front Line."

--

CHAPTER 4 Danger Signs

At first it was treated as a joke. Me, Headwind the Pacifist, signing on as a Decepticon soldier, fighting for a cause I had spent my recent time detesting with public despise. I was not taken seriously by my colleagues, even as I packed up my belongings, giving away a number of items of equipment that I would be in a position to use no longer. So unlikely was the move that it was not until I was saying my final goodbyes and Skylab appeared to reiterate to my remaining colleagues that this was no transfer but the end of my career, that it finally sunk in,

As I took one last look around the facility I turned to leave. "Hey, wait a minute!" called Grennis, bounding down the corridor. "Before you go," he offered, "we wanted to go out later for a send off for you." I smiled. It was genuine sentiment, but I was not exactly built for partying, as I reminded him, and Taggon, with the Front Line of the war so close, was hardly the place to be celebrating. Grennis nodded, aware of my appreciation of his efforts, even if it was a 'thanks - but no thanks' kind of appreciation. "So, come on, what are you doing this for?" He asked finally. "Where are you really going?"

"I'm going to bring peace to the world." I grinned. Grennis grimaced at my non-explanation. "Take care." I advised with a firm handshake before stepping out into the street once more.

I had stepped into this street to transform and head home hundreds of times before, but this time I felt liberated. I was not going home; I was going somewhere new, somewhere different and somewhere altogether scary, there was no hiding that. But I felt pride in my life as if its very purpose was finally defined. I transformed and flew into the city centre boyed with a new confidence.

For a moment, even from this low altitude, I could see the whisps of smoke hundreds of miles away as Autobots and Decepticons clashed on the Front Line. There was no disguising the fact that I might die. I could be ripped apart by hellish weapons my former colleagues from all manner of previous employers had designed. There was no disguising that the Decepticons were not called Evil for nothing. They mistreated prisoners of war, even their own troops. They had little or no respect for 'rules' of war. Did I really know what I was doing?

I remained in the air circling above the recruitment centre in downtown Taggon, deliberating my final decision. Recruitment for the Decepticon cause was paramount in their quest for global domination, but was equally paramount in my quest for global peace. If I were to join the Autobots I would be just one more soldier fighting them in their own way, No, I needed to do this for a reason of such importance I could scarcely grasp its magnitude myself. I did not expect anyone else to understand.

Except I did. In this, the very breeding ground for loutish thugs snapped up as cannon fodder for the Decepticon cause, I wanted, and expected, to find the very being I craved. What was I thinking? I was about to sign up to fighting on the Front Line with brain-dead psychotics! Again, I pushed this thought aside and made my descent. It had to be this way. I needed someone of such ill-repute, what better place to for me to find him?

But this was to be the start of a very long road, whereupon there would be no turning back. I could not afford to start what I could not finish. But with the war intensifying as rapidly as the frequency of enrolment days, I could equally ill-afford the prospect of not starting. I made one final pass and my decision was made. I transformed and entered the building, the door slamming shut behind me as if echoing my thoughts of indefinity. No going back.

Though there must have been a good one or two hundred rookies inside, the queue moved faster than I could have expected. A line of would-be soldiers stood, mostly in pairs, possibly afraid to go it alone like me. As I neared the desk, I was ushered into a sub-queue; the moment of reckoning beckoned.

The range of emotions I felt and those being shown by others in the room ranged considerably. Some were scared, some even choosing to turn around and leave. Yet others were far more eager, actively pushing to sign up. Even as I headed the queue, trying to answer the registrar's request for a name, someone interrupted and overtook, thrusting his confident self into my conversation. He was swaggering with bravado, oozing confidence, over-confidence even, like he was either full of the words of a naive rookie with dreams of lavish heroism, or over-compensating for his inner feelings of terror and mortal dread, precisely what I had been thinking the whole time I queued.

For all his bravado, he was not the appearance one might have expected. He did not have the rough and tumble look about him just yet; indeed he was as thin and scrawny as me, with little or no sign of experience. Maybe this confidence was false? Maybe this 'confidence' was necessary, possibly all that was stopping him from turning on the spot and running out of the recruitment centre? Maybe, maybe not.

"Was there something you wanted?" the Duty Officer asked me, the intimidating reality of the moment recapturing my focus once more. The arrogant queue-jumper was gone; it was surely my turn now. Though a part of me felt this was the final chicken-gate, the reality was that it was too late to back out now. Even if I could turn and leave and probably get away without too much aggro, to utter my next words would be to close that door forever. I swallowed hard and concluded the conversation.

After a few stares of disbelief I was ushered through to the branding room where my new comrades and I would receive our insignias and regiment identification. "Medical Corps?" Asked the Allegiance Officer, his voice of a slightly elevated pitch. "You actually volunteered for them?" The palindromic emphasis of his sentence served only to confirm his grin was mixed in equal parts surprise and laughter. "You're slagged." He laughed. "It's only a matter of time." He informed me casually, like Death himself was checking my whether it was convenient for me die right now, or if he should swing by sometime in the coming week instead.

I shrugged, defiantly. Everyone else in the registration room had thought I was crazy too. Why should he be any different? Did I even care if he thought I was crazy? The Allegiance Officer shook his head, aligning the insignia transfer to my arm. As a Field Medic (or trainee Field Medic), my shoulders now sported the traditional Decepticon design, but was slightly lighter in colour, indicating my specific role on the battlefield.

The Medical Corps was a Decepticon division that had so-far endured the test of time since the beginning of the war, but quite how long it could withstand the tribulations remained to be seen. The Medical Corps was a protected division. It received revenues, energon, supplies and so forth far beyond its needs and far beyond any other division. In turn, it offered attractive incentives to tempt those of a different persuasion. Besides, regardless of these perks, in terms of Front Line fighting, the Medical Corps represented the most civilian of militaristic occupations, and it was to this that I was most naturally drawn.

Warfare on Cybertron is governed by the Irongate Protocol, an evolution of the unofficial Warrior Code, by which it is still often referred. It is a series of rules of engagement, not aimed specifically at any particular faction, they set out the rules by which warrior conflict had risen from the primitive skirmishes of the past to more politically-backed conflicts. Its coverage includes everything from arresting and detaining prisoners of war, abuse of rights by superior officers, apportion of blame and responsibility, treaty negotiations, military alliances, battlefield protocol, the chain of command, troop withdrawal etiquette, disengagement (surrendering) and the use of conventional and non-conventional arms in the field. The most recent major amendment to the Protocol had been made around a thousand years ago to outlaw the use of neutron bombs within war, a specific militarised reference to the compliance of the Grat Pact. There were, of course, loopholes and those that defied the order and would find ways to get around the laws and guidelines, with varying levels of discretion; technically-speaking even I had been researching into the deadly NISCEM form of (safe, nano-scale) neutron bomb technology myself until the Anodian Amendment legalised my work.

But this was not that which concerned me, nor was it the Allegiance Officer (how could he have known about or shown any interest in my past as a research scientist?). No, what had caused his amusement was knowing my choice of division was the Medical Corps, a division with a strong history of conscription over subscription. What amused him was the adheration to the Irongate Protocol, specifically the rules regarding the respective Medical Corps of warring factions.

According to the Irongate Protocol, members of the Medical Corps are not to be targeted by the enemy of the soldier's respective faction. They are to be treated as civilian unless a weapon is drawn. That is to say, unless a doctor is pointing an ionic cannon at your face, he cannot be harmed. It is unreasonable, for such a civil race as our own, to target the innocent, or to prolong the suffering of soldiers when in reality the responsibility rests firmly on the shoulders of the governing politicians and ranking officers. When a soldier is downed and requires treatment, neither he nor his saviour pose an immediate threat. It is not within the warrior code to deny them a warrior's death; you cannot shoot them in the back. Fighting is a head's-up arrangement; respect it.

As such, members of the Medical Corps have to be distinguishable from regular troops. So, in the Decepticon Army, field medics are recognised by the lighter shade of purple that colours their insignia. The Autobots had twisted the rules somewhat, so I had been informed. Their respective division could be identified by a red cross on the shoulder in addition to the Autobot motif. But on Cybertron, a red cross was supposed to denote civilian doctors. Their abuse of the oh-so-similar design but with (allegedly) a slightly thicker red cross than civilian doctors had been successful in fooling some Neutralists into thinking the Autobot medics were non-aligned. Technicalities like this abuse of the Protocol were rife on Cybertron, but no one cared about technicalities on the Front Line.

The reason why voluntary subscription to the Medical Corps was so uncouth was because of the lack of warrior ethics on the Field. Sure, it looked good for propaganda to claim to follow the Irongate Protocol to the letter, but the moment you step out onto the battlefield the Protocol is flung out of the proverbial window.

Field Medics were still differentiated from other troops by opposing forces, even though this was not for the good of the Warrior Code, for Field Medics were actively targeted, by both sides. A good shot on a warrior might kill one warrior; a good shot no a medic might result in the death of ten warriors by virtue of the power presented by Field Medics. They could revive entire armies if left unharmed. Field Medics, therefore, should be eliminated, regardless of whether they were genuine soldiers or simply civilians drafted in to clean up the killing fields. Yet regardless of this fact well-known amongst military types and those associated (like me, via Milatech), it was still seen as the correct thing to do. Irongate spoke and the militaries obliged, in the public eye at least.

I had been ushered with the other cadets into a courtyard for my pre-inauguration, as they called it. Essentially it was a selection committee, the first stage of sifting through the grunts and picking out the good from the bad. The three or four of us sporting a light insignia were pushed to one side. We were like gold dust. We were either stupid enough to volunteer or unlucky enough to be volunteered, but either way they had no desire to pluck us from the crowd and reassign us. The other hundred or so recruits that had signed up today were ordered to transform and were given quick 'interviews' by over-zealous drill sergeants to see how tough they were and to what their abilities mounted.

Just because I was a 'civilian' soldier working as a Field Medic, it did not excuse me from Basic Training, as I had been reminded, and like the rest I was to be put through my paces with vigour. So like the regular soldiers we were assessed physically. My first job was to undergo a surgical upgrade; my meagre aircraft mode was upgraded to that of a low-level bomber. But a rushed job made my new alternate mode seemed a little rough. However, with my scientific background of surgical augmentation, I would be able to tweak my appearance here and there as and when the needs and opportunities arose.

I looked down at the light purple insignia on my shoulder. Yes, that is what I was here for now. I was going to clean up the Front Line. It was a bold thought, considering I had never held a weapon, let alone used one in anger or by force. The nature of my passive reputation had yielded few scuffles or vendettas. I had only ever acted as a peace-maker, never daring to venture into anything more heated than a war of words. But now I was a Decepticon and all that had to change.

A little stiff from the surgery I walked out into the training courtyard once more. There was a minor cheer, as had become customary when a recruit emerged outside. Various gruff voices bellowed, telling me to transform and show them my new mode. I was far from comfortable at being the centre of attention, especially if that attention was of a group of rough-cut soldiers hell-bent on kicking some ass on the Front Line. Soon the cheers were replaced by jeers and boos at my non-compliance. A couple of them made aggressive advances as I backed off a couple of steps. But the social leader of this hot-headed rabble placed an outstretched arm in front of the advancing comrades playing war a little over-zealously. I traded a quick nod of appreciation for 'allowing' me the right of passage alongside his group and walked on. Within a couple of steps I was little more than a distant memory to them as they vented their playful intimidation on another hapless victim.

Those outside this main group stood in smaller groups, trying to become acquainted with their new colleagues. Others stood or sat alone, those I recognised mostly as being the quiet ones from the registration queue. If I was to get on in this Corps, reason might have told me I had to befriend one of these guys; I needed someone I could trust, someone not as intimidating as the loud-mouthed oafs that comprised most of my platoon. I wanted someone quieter, more reserved; someone that I knew would not stab me in the back. I wanted to find someone like Brainstorm. Reason might have told me a lot of things, but reason had gotten me into this situation in the first place, and right now reason was drawing me to someone else, someone completely different.

The rogue that pushed by me in the queue with all the eagerness of a veteran sat alone in a corner, his back pressed up against the wall, knees hitched up from the ground. I sat with him, but said nothing. I watched the door as another cadet emerged from the operating table, his confident stance demanding his loud new-found friends to watch the premier showing of his new transformation. He was a large, dual turreted tank, and wasted no time in firing a shell over walls and into the testing range. With a unified whoop of delight, his comrades congratulated him on his new mode and he joined them in their fantasies of killing Autobots, or whatever it was their conversation had turned to.

I chose not to look at the figure I sat with, but I felt him eyeing my up. Each of us seemed content to wait for the other to speak, but I caved first. "You don't say much." I offered finally, still staring across the courtyard, our silence being tested for the first time.

"No." He acknowledged after a pause. My platoon-mates had begun to fight playfully again, testing each other and probing for reactions. Their rough and tumble mentality seemed perfect for life as Front Line cannon fodder. But what on Cybertron was I doing here, though? I shook my head. These guys, who had now moved onto taunting the quieter members of the platoon, were every bit as despicable as I might have imagined.

I watched as a couple of the larger cadets pinned a weaker one to the ground as their laughing onlookers took turns in kicking him. They were not trying to kill him, I could be sure of that, they were just establishing the hierarchy of the platoon, and the way to do that was to hurt the others. "Just look at them." I told the stranger. "I hate bullies." I admitted. "It's easy to hurt someone weaker than you, but it takes guts to tackle the more powerful in the same way." I suggested. "They're just cowards." I dared to accuse. "When it comes down to it, they are nothing but empty threats."

"What about you?" He asked. "Are you an empty threat?"

I sighed. "Probably." I admitted, reluctantly. "But if I wasn't, then I probably wouldn't be here now. I'd be far and away doing something more meaningful with my time." I contemplated, my gaze drifting towards the sky for inspiration. "I wouldn't be here, that's for sure."

"Nice paint job." He observed after another pause.

His reference to my light purple marking might have been directed at me but could have applied equally well to him, for he sported a light insignia of his own. I shrugged and looked instinctively at my marking. "I did it so I can try to save more lives than I kill." I told him. "Indeed, I have no wish to kill anyone." I explained, my finger subconsciously tracing the outline, recalling the warmth from the branding. "Besides," I continued, looking up and back towards the other cadets, "their lives could be in my hands one day. They'll know this, one day if not already." I prophesised. "They won't harm me; I'm too valuable to them." I explained, forecasting the realisation of rumours of corruption and more bullying within the ranks. "I may never be one of them, but it will be in their interests to see I am untouched." I finished. Another cadet burst out of the operating room in his new tank mode, redirecting the attention of the bored troops from their helpless victim once more. "What about you?" I asked.

Logic dictated he might understand my reasons for joining, but also that they were probably not the reasons why he had joined the Medical Corps himself. Through my peripheral vision I became aware of his head tipping to one side. "Maybe I'm just crazy." He grinned, like he was desperate to believe this himself. "The truth is," he smiled to himself, "as a Medic I get to be in more fights this way." Indeed, his sickening counter-logic was a paradox of my own reasons for joining. "I get to spill more oil!" He laughed, his hands rolling in glee. I nodded, placing my hands by my side, an almost subconscious action to show my disapproval. But for a would-be killer with fantasies of glorious war it made sense. Being actively targeted by opposition fighters as per the deliberate non-compliance of the Irongate Protocol would immediately provide more assailants than regular soldiers might get. He explained he had no interest in the 'dirty work' of healing others. He was in this purely for thrill of the chase.

We sat in silence for some time longer as a couple more cadets emerged. "Shame." He muttered, taking his turn to look towards the darkening sky, sensing I had no intention of revelling in his casual attitude to life. "You'd make a good killer." He told me with a grin.

I nodded ironically and allowed quiet laughter to escape. "I could never kill anyone." I reminded him. I looked on as a few distant stars came into view, daring to emerge from the contrast camouflaged of their shrouded daytime retreat. "I just don't have it in me."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true." He mocked cheerily. "If you look deep down inside." he suggested. We sat in silence a little longer embracing the evening sunset, a warm breeze filtering through my joints, reaching new places as the result of my surgical modifications. His voice was surprisingly seductive and I felt compelled to allow my optics to power down and to drift 'deep inside'. "Deep down," he continued, "there's a killer in all of us."

I smiled and reactivated my eyes once more and let out a sigh, flexing my new joints once more and feeling the increased strength of my upgraded hydraulics again. "Not me." I promised. "I'm one of the good guys."

"That's not what your badge says." he laughed, a reference to my Decepticon insignia. The popular sociograms depicted Decepticons as 'evil' and Autobots as 'heroic'. Despite what I had heard about the Decepticons and their tactics, I believed it was likely that the Autobots were equally heavy-handed. It was all slag to me. An Autobot may be different to a Decepticon, but their inherent values remain one with evil. But I was not here through choice, I was here through destiny. Given the choice, I would be neither, thus making me exempt from the status of evil. At least that is how I saw it.

"Takes one to know one." I quipped. He laughed quietly before allowing the silence to return for a moment. "Tell you what." I suggested, allowing myself to break my subconscious gaze from the vortex trails of a passing jet. "You do my share of killing," I offered, "and I'll do your 'dirty work'. How about it?"

He seemed to deliberate this for a moment, but I think the answer was a foregone conclusion. "Deal." He smiled. The silence returned and my hand picked around at the dirt trying to alleviate my boredom. "One day, they're going to be calling me from afar," he promised, tossing some dirt of his own at the ground just beyond his feet, "just you wait."

"Yeah?" I asked rather casually, purposelessly scoring a line on the surface with a shard of scrap rubble that I happened to find in my hand. "You sound ambitious." I remarked. He nodded. "But in the meantime you're going to have to be content with just me." I smiled. "So what should I call you then?"

"I am Megadeath!" He hissed with a wicked smile, taking to his feet, arms raised with shameless arrogance, attracting the attention of a couple of bemused by-standing cadets. "I am Megadeath!"

--

CHAPTER 5 Killer Instinct

On several occasions over the coming days, high-level personnel would bypass my commanding officers and trainers, summoning me to speak with their research staff. They tried to tempt me from my new role as a cadet and back into the laboratories and on each occasion I would have to refuse. Every time I saw them I managed to salvage some excuse from my mind of broken lies and prepared answers. Perhaps my mind was full, or I needed a new challenge, or indeed, I had fabricated results in order to make me seem more intelligent than I was. My latest excuse was that I wanted to sample Front Line life in order to appreciate the trials and tribulations of a foot soldier so I could help improve upon the basic kit design offered graduating cadets.

On two such occasions I had been offered the chance to work on some underhand project involving neutron bombs. They were, without success, trying to emulate the decimating properties of the Accident on a smaller scale. If they could produce a small neutron bomb that could hit super-critical status, that is to say produce a NISCEM pulse, the possibilities for the redesign of conventional arms was boundless. The amount of explosives needed to detonate a building or a bridge, for example, was enormous compared to the size of a NISCEM bomb needed theoretically to devoid said building or bridge of life. Furthermore, with the elimination of the target via electromagnetic pulse rather than explosives would render the infrastructure of the vicinity of the pulse relatively undamaged barring any electronic dependencies. Kill, but do not destroy; instinctively a tempting philosophy to the Military.

But while it might sound nice in theory to them, I was not interested. Neutromagnetics for self-operational 'medikits' were one thing; using them in massacres was quite another. Though a direct contravention of the Grat Pact, they insisted their work was in accordance to the spirit of the Pact, or at least the Anodian Amendment. These were small scale bombs that eliminate without the associated destruction of conventional explosives and were still, in essence, smaller versions of the same bombs that wiped the city of Grat from the map. Working on a small NISCEM bombs was a short step from working directly on an outlawed neutron bomb and another potential Accident. I politely declined.

Besides, as I pointed out, so-claimed all the scientists NISCEM pulses were flukes, freaks of nature. They could not be predicted nor could they be produced manually. They required the correct atmospheric abnormalities, the continually varying fluxes and energies that warmed the skies to self propel, be that over a small distance such as a bridge, or over a vast expanse like the city of Grat. I explained that scientists working directly in that area for the last thousand years or so claimed small-scale NISCEM bombs were at best uncontrollable, but more likely impossible. My former colleagues at Milatech had disclosed as much to me. I would not know where to begin. My reputation preceded me, as they insisted, and as awkward as it made the situation, it was comforting to know my years of research had not been forgotten already. "Maybe later," I promised wryly every time, "but at the moment I am committed to the Front Line."

They were disappointed, that much was clear. They felt hard done to. I was offered a chance of the relative safety of laboratory work and the life I knew and I had thrown it back in their face in order to play soldier. I was warned, perhaps threatened, that I would receive no special treatment on the Front Line. I would be treated as disposable as the next soldier. I did not care. I had faith in myself to forge some sort of reputation through my relationship with Megadeath.

During the following weeks we spent some time alone discussing anything and everything. He was on my wavelength, of that there was no doubt. Convincing him was going to be easy, it was convincing me that was a constant threat at the back of my mind. For I was able to see beyond his false confidence, and I knew that behind this misdirected soldier lay a vulnerability only I could comprehend. He would change all that, that was my command, and in exchange I promised him the world.

But why did I join the fight? What exactly had made me join a futile war? And what on Cybertron had possessed me to sign up to the side of the Evil Decepticons, no less? It was a simple truth. I was on the look-out for someone, someone I could not hope to find anywhere else. Whoever that was, wherever he was, I had to find him. Lurking out there on the filthy battlefields existed the backbone of my formulations. All I had to do was to release his potential. In a way I had already I had done so. I was confident that Megadeath was the one for me. The next step was realising this potential.

So it was fitting, perhaps, that a soldier with self-confessed dreams of killing on the Front Line under the disguise of a Field Medic might himself team up with a fellow Medic with the desire to help the dead and dying and not cripple them. A year or so into our basic training, Megadeath and I had become quite proficient in many skills. For someone who had no intention of shooting anyone, I had developed rifle skills with surprising speed. But my future role had been defined, primarily to hunt down and repair stricken Decepticons, so despite my new-found abilities with the rifle, it was unlikely that I would actually engage the enemy in this way because my hands would be full concentrating on helping my comrades.

By this time we had spent several months training within the compound, learning specifically surgical skills alongside our basic weapons training. But what was surprising to some, given Megadeath's bravado, was his apparent inexperience with weaponry as well as his adept surgical skills, despite his insistence to others that he was in this fight purely to show the planet who was 'boss'. I reminded Megadeath that I was not in this to kill. I was here to save. Even though Megadeath had the competency of any Field Medic I knew, he would constantly remind me so far as he was concerned, he simply wanted to make a name for himself. "I am Megadeath!" he would scream, not, apparently, to anybody in particular but to anyone who would care to listen. That much was obvious and I was just fine with that.

Our unit had the camaraderie one might expect from a team bonded by such a lengthy stint together and for the most part, provided the hierarchy of the social group was maintained, each member was accepted for his traits. There were a few outsiders too, those that refused or were refused entry into the niche of the unit. We were such cases. Were anyone to get close, or even try to establish contact, Megadeath would take over, hissing and snapping until they left. It did not take long for my platoon to decide that a rapport with their Medics was unattainable and left us to our own devices.

Another year, and were it not for the miscommunication between myself and the other soldiers, it seemed all was well. Our preliminary training was over and now we were ready to embark on the final phase which combined all we had learned in accurate mock battles. Megadeath and I flew towards our destination as ordered by our commanding officer for our first field trip. So I understood, in this mission we were to establish the respective abilities of field medics in the heat of battle, to see if we could cope.

We travelled to the poor, run-down province of Carina some distance away in Decepticon-held territory. Once ravished by a localised civil war, the inhabitants had welcomed the Decepticon peace-keeping alliance that dissolved the rebel forces and helped the local government retake control of the region. But with a peaceful stability of sorts finally emerging, the Decepticon interim remained in Carina. So I had heard, their stay became less welcome due to their underhand and indiscriminative tactics against both the lawless and those charged with its upkeep. With their own skirmish a memory, the locals saw the Decepticon troops continue to roll into Carina, 'assisting' the government to maintain the 'peace'. By rights, Carina was liberated, but by circumstance, Carina had been annexed by Megatron.

Scarlen was Carina's capital and its suburban sprawl now covered the majority of its land-mass, population and its viable workforce. Effectively, with criminally low workers' rights, the Decepticons' iron-fisted rule of Carina had forced Scarlen into a cheap labouring city, churning out equipment for the Decepticon army at relatively little cost. Those that could, worked, those that could not, were extradited into the small towns that surrounded Scarlen. Carina, a manufacturing province had been turned into a concentration camp of labour and disillusionment.

I had heard the stories and I had seen the news articles, but actually to be going in the putrid city of Valun disturbed me. It even made Grat look habitable. During their conflict, the infighting was between the relatively wealthy residents of Carina, most of whom lived in Scarlen, and the poorer industrialists. They had been driven out of traditional businesses as a result of a technological explosion in the capital, and the accompanying corruption and neglect of more outlying towns like Valun. The capital accused their poorer neighbours of trying to cripple Carina's prosperous economy (or more accurately, Scarlen's prosperous economy) through unfounded propaganda. So they employed the horrendous counter-measure of 'ethnically-cleansing' all those bound with the same social and cultural beliefs that Scarlen was in some way out to deny the rest of Carina the support it so desperately needed.

The hypocrisy of the way in which Scarlen dealt with the civil unrest only fuelled the rebels into more furtive objection. What had started out as demonstrations, became rioting, riots became more violent and soon the minor skirmish had turned into a full-blown, if centralised, war. With the rest of Cybertron appalled by the massacring of its own population by the troops loyal to Scarlen, the Decepticons volunteered to step in to put an end to the genocide. But with the Decepticons staying put, it was now the time for the inhabitants of Scarlen to suffer the oppression of an unwelcome regime, only this time, with the rest of Cybertron at war, no one had the time, inclination, or indeed sympathy, to deal with Carina.

I was unsure quite what to make of the place or our 'training mission', as it had been described. I had been told that upon arriving, my job would be to test out my medical skills. I presumed I would be to assist at the hospital, but I was assured the building that once took care of Valun's ill was long-since destroyed in their war. No, I was to test my skills in a 'battlefield environment'. Carina's civil war had ended some time ago, but it was true to describe the remnants of the region as a battlefield, for the urban regeneration it required so desperately had yet to materialise, and under the reign of the Decepticons, it might never do so. But at least I would have the opportunity to give the civilians of this desperate community something in return.

After we had all registered our arrival at Valun's Military checkpoint to the south separating and Carina from the rest of Cybertron, Hatchet, our commanding officer, reminded us medics of our duties. We were to seek out and stem life-threatening injuries of the wounded. This seemed all very humanitarian, but it seemed odd to require the 'backup' of thirty or so regular cadets. How was our repairing of the injured going to offer them any training? The question was raised by one of my colleagues.

At his behest, one of the trigger-happy troops in the huddle answered for Hatchet. He was loud and brash and all at the base had taken a shine to him. He was a natural leader and demanded the respect of his peers, which he duly received. "Sir, we are here to re-create a battlefield situation, sir!" bellowed Furnace.

The officer smiled. "That's correct, cadet." He concurred, looking towards the horizon, like he was trying to pick out someone from distance. An uneasy feeling washed over me. As I, too, scanned the town, I saw a number of civilians leaving the area hurriedly. The look on their faces told me they had seen 'training missions' before and that they were not acquiescent to the situation. "You, medics!" He boomed, excessively loud for emphasis. "In this exercise, you will not afford the luxury of time to assess the situation; you will make an instinctive decision upon whom to operate." I nodded, a subliminal demonstration of such instincts. "And for this exercise to be of any benefit, you will do so as if in a real combat situation." He looked over at Furnace and the others. "Try not to kill them," he suggested casually, under the low, rumbling laughs of my platoon mates, "you might need them one day." He turned back to face me and the other medics and shrugged. "This mission is live." He commented. "Go fish." I looked at my colleague, who shrugged. "Move it!" He bellowed.

We split up and sprinted into the main street in the fashion we had been trained. Taking mock cover from the imaginary enemy, I hurled myself at a crater that had ripped itself into the ground. A mortar flew overhead and blasted into the street sending a shower of scorching shards in my direction. As they sizzled and sparked over my body, I radioed my position to my commander and asked for assistance from the look-out. I could not see any wounded civilians; I was unsure who I was supposed to be helping. After all, it was not as if the wounded inhabitants of Valun had suffered recent injuries. As I said, Carina's civil war ended some time ago. They surely would not be expecting assistance in this unorthodox manner, so it was of no surprise that they were not rushing into the streets to beg for our medical skills. It was odd, I felt, that we should be here to help the veterans of a forgotten war, but to offer our skills at the expense of another few holes in a street that needed a face-lift, not a mock-war.

The look-out assured me there was a 'casualty' directly ahead, a short distance away. I peered over the smoking rubble and indeed saw a bewildered civilian, standing, lying raggedly on the ground unsure what to make of this unprovoked attack on the inanimate objects in his neighbourhood. "Affirmative." I replied, still looking around for 'snipers'. Operating under the rules laid down during my training, I darted out towards him. A couple of explosions threw me off-balance once more, and this time they were accompanied by a number of laser shots in my general direction. As another shot came too close for comfort I recall thinking they were not kidding about recreating a battlefield environment.

Orders were yelled to accommodate this stricken civilian, perilously caught in the crossfire just ahead. The look-out guided me until I could identify the form that was locked between transformation modes. I slunk to me knees, opening a small hatch on my arm and selecting a couple of tools. I fumbled with the writhing robot to open up his control unit to manually 'assist' with the completion of his transformation and to allow him to leave under his own steam without the indignity of being carried away in his unrecognisably non-descript mistransformation.

A couple of shots ricocheted around my working area, causing me to drop my tools and duck my head instinctively. I looked back towards where my platoon was shooting towards me. My gaze had been spotted. "You're a soldier!" bellowed Hatchet. "You will get shot at!" He promised, as a few more shots came dangerously close to hitting either me or my patient. I scrabbled around in the dirt trying to relocate my tools as a mortar exploded so close that we were both rolled sideways a couple of times. I sat up and tried to regain my composure. Maybe I had underestimated the disregard for the Irongate Protocol. I was getting rattled around like a nut in a bucket and now even the injured neutralist had taken damage. His right arm, particularly exposed as a result of his transformation problems, had been taken the brunt of the roll and was broken, left hanging on overburdened hydraulics leaking oils and other fluids.

I tried to justify his predicament to myself. Who knows how long he had been in this agonising and humiliating mid-transformation? Days? Weeks? Months, even? If we had not come here he could have remained here until his energon supply was exhausted, dying denied of his dignity. So what if our arrival and the rather over-enthusiastic actions of my platoon had broken his arm, at least he was not going to die. I crawled over to his body and, having given up hopes of retrieving my tools, set about opening up the control compartment by force. "Sorry about this." I whispered to myself as I ripped open the panel. As another burst of laser-fire illuminated my environment with a deep purple hue, I fused together a couple of wires and manhandled his waist, forcing it to twist beyond whatever had been impeding him. With a resounding clunk, the prone robot finally completed his transformation. I sighed for a moment, content I had achieved as much as I could be expected. "Are you still there?" boomed Hatchet. "You going to read him a story?" I assured him I was not. "Then what are you waiting for? Move it!" He screamed. I radioed to my look-out for the position of another casualty, scrambling across the ground in some anticipated direction. Without so much as a word of thanks (understandably), the injured robot blasted off in his damaged hover-car mode and away from battleground.

Like all the other medics, I was kept busy with the minor repairing of another three or four robots as my team-mates shot up the ground around me. I was unsure where these patients were coming from; clearly there were more casualties in Valun as a result of the Carina war than I had been led to believe. But as the exercise continued I became less concerned about the proximity of the explosions and the disturbingly accurate shots that fired agonisingly close to me, but was able to focus more on the matter at hand and the job I was sent specifically to do. I was not longer even aware of Megadeath and the other field medics trawling the battleground looking for damaged troops. I had soon managed to force another transformation of a robot locked between modes, replaced a faulty fuel drive in another, and patched up numerous old projectile scars. But as I tried to reattach a foot that had been dislocated as a direct result of this mock battle, I felt a sudden striking pain in my left arm. Dropping the injured robot's leg, I clasped my upper arm with my right hand and saw the damage first-hand.

I had been shot. Some idiot on my own team in a training mission had actually shot me. I became angry. Accident or otherwise, this could have been prevented. I swore to myself I was going to make an issue about the 'realism' of the training mission with my superiors. I became angry with the situation, but before I could react further Hatchet interrupted my thoughts. "Are you injured?" He called. I nodded with a scowl. He knew I was injured. "Then what are you waiting for?" He asked for the umpteenth time that day. "You're no good to us if you can't even patch yourself up!"

In some twisted way he was right. It was indeed a good test. His methods were barbaric, but practical. But this reasoned logic provided little respite to my thunderous thoughts of anger. I pulled my hand from my shoulder and performed a self examination. The shot had passed right through me, avoiding my hydraulics. I could still flex all the joints in my arm, albeit painfully. The only real damage I could assess was that my cooling system that regulated the temperature of my arm had been destroyed. In the short term, this should not be a problem. I could repair that later in the safety of the barracks. I quickly riveted a small scrap of metal over the wound to patch it loosely and radioed my status, informing Hatchet I was ready to continue.

But when I turned back to face my patient I was met with horror. Either the shot that had passed through me or perhaps a different shot altogether had penetrated his chest. A small fire burned within him as his hydraulic systems spasmed with fluid pressure irregularity. What had begun as a quick fix operation to replace a corroding electrical system had become bad enough when, through 'friendly fire', his foot became damaged. But both were trivial compared to his latest ailment. He was dying and I was the only one who could do anything about it. This was more serious than sticking transformations, a broken arm, or a faulty fuel pump. This robot was actually going to die.

I was quickly able to extinguish the flames, but his insides were already badly burned. I assessed him and reassessed him. I made a move and changed my mind. I chose again and paused once more. There were so many things wrong that I could not imagine where to begin. The simple truth was that he was not going to live more than thirty minutes and there was nothing I could do about that here. What few tools of my meagre collection had not been lost in the rubble were far from suitable. He needed a hospital.

I turned back to face my officer and his troops. Nervously at first, then with a little more confidence, I stood up and waved an arm, calling for them to terminate the exercise. Even from this distance, the reaction on his face was clear; he was furious. "Hold your fire!" screamed Hatchet storming into the street himself, face fuming and marching directly towards me. As the other medics revealed themselves from craters or from under debris, all optics were on the menacing figure that loomed overhead. Stopping short of stepping down into my small crater, possibly to exaggerate his height advantage over me for more terrifying effect, he stood hand on hips. "What on Cybertron do you think you are doing?" He yelled in a voice louder than I had heard him use before, and he had done a lot of yelling in the past.

"We've got a casualty, sir." I began nervously, explaining the obvious. "I need to..." I tried to continue.

"No one needs to do anything except what I say!" Hatchet dictated. "And I did not say to stop the mission!" He roared.

"He's going to die." I tried to explain, my head instinctively turning to face the figure that sat up against the backdrop of crater debris. Hatchet warned me sternly never to turn my head from his when I was speaking to him. "Sir, he's going to die!" I repeated, facing my commanding officer and refocusing. "I can't save him here, sir!"

"So what?" He demanded. "If you can't save him you move on and you find a new patient, soldier!" His words of apathy hit me hard. His mind bore no responsibility to the situation in which we found ourselves. It was as if he did not care that this was an exercise, like he did not care the veteran of a forgotten civil war that slumped before him was going to die as the result of an accident on a training mission, or rather his training mission.

"But he's dying." I persisted. Hatchet was almost ravenous, like the power had gone to his head. He stepped down into the crater with me, bumping me and nearly toppling me over. I steadied myself and managed to regain my balance, just in time to feel his heavy hand smacking me hard across the face sending me backwards once more, tripping over the legs of the dying Empty. As I shook my head, my hand instinctively groped for the wound on my shoulder as the searing pain returned.

"Don't you ever question me again, soldier, or I'll rip your face a new audio socket!" He spat. "Stand up!" He yelled. Quickly I took to my feet once more. "I can see he's dying," he continued a little more calmly, "and it doesn't take a surgeon to see he's not going to make it." I nodded.

"But, sir, if we took him to a hospital..." I dared to propose.

"Look around." He suggested casually. "There's no hospital here." He was right. There had been no hospital in Valun for some time. That was, after all, the very reason why I was here, or so I had thought. Now the motives for this mission were becoming clearer.

"Perhaps we could take him back to the barracks?" I asked with naive hopefulness. It was evident to Hatchet and the onlookers that now stood around our crater that I was clutching at straws. He did not even need to counter this with a denial. There was no way on Cybertron this wretch was coming back with us. "Can't you see he's in pain? He's dying." I repeated once more expecting another onslaught from his fists.

Instead he stood his ground and looked over at my patient. "Then stop it." He suggested with a shrug, turning his face back to look me in the eye.

"I told you, I can't stop him dying here. I need..." I explained.

"I didn't say stop him dying," interrupted the officer, "I said stop his pain." The puzzled look on my face asked him how I could do this. "You've got a gun." He reminded me. "Kill him. Shoot him in the slagging face!" My eyes widened at this ludicrous suggestion. "Who fault's is all this?" He demanded, turning to face his troops, hauling himself from the crater pulling on an unsuspecting arm that had not been offered, nearly sending the cadet into the crater himself. "Who made this shot?"

"Sir, I did, sir!" Chirped a cadet, taking one step forward and taking the blame. Hatchet held out a hand, a pose that silently ordered him to hand over his weapon, which he gave duly.

Hatchet shook his head almost jovially. "You were supposed to aim for the limbs, soldier!" He reminded him. "You weren't supposed to make any body or headshots!" He explained, emphasising the 'headshot' order by hitting him, albeit lightly, across the face with his own weapon. The faint hint of laughter grumbled within the ranks as Hatchet thrust the weapon back into the hands of the arms of the trooper, his acquired momentum forcing him back a step. "Get back in line." Finished Hatchet, but it was clear that the source of his anger was not the poor aim of his soldiers, but at me. He turned back to see the disbelief in my eyes. "Is that wretch still alive?" He spat.

This whole mission was a farce. They had been actively targeting these civilians. They were not trying to recreate a battlefield environment with the odd mortar or ricochet. They were deliberately shooting them in the limbs to give me someone upon which to operate, giving me my medical practice, while offering target-practice for them. It all made sense now as the realisation of his twisted methods hit me hard, causing my spark to sink to a new low. Brainstorm was right; the Decepticons were not called 'evil' for nothing.

"What are you waiting for?" bellowed Hatchet. I took in my hands the rifle that had been slung over my shoulder for the duration of the mission, my fingers flexing nervously around the weapon, pulsing with the wicked thoughts in my mind. I tried to justify it to myself. This guy was indeed just a wretch. He was in pain. He was dying. He had nothing left to contribute to society. So why could I not pull the trigger? I had a hundred reasons to kill him and just one not to. But the weight of knowing it was wrong, pure and simple, was enough to hold its own against the barrage of orders and voices in my head. "Kill him!" My eyes closed for a moment and my weapon dropped to my side. "Kill him!"

My eyes opened to find myself staring up at the sky, my mouth trembling. I could not do it. I cannot recall what I was thinking. Everything was a blur. Perhaps I was asking Primus for forgiveness. Perhaps I was asking for divine intervention to get me out of this predicament. The truth was I was in this alone. There was only one way out; the Empty must die. I turned my head back to face my prone foe, my armed hand outstretched, the shaking barrel pointing at his head a dead giveaway of my false confidence. But as the sadness in his eyes met the fear in my own, I felt there no option but to look away. "Kill him!" Even with my face turned, I could not stand to keep my optics open. I was still quite sure my weapon was still facing the wretch though, and at least this blind way I would not have to see the sparks in his eyes dim with the killing shot. Could this be the reason that tipped the balance?

My head was still deliberating this when the rapid triple burst of energon fire took me by complete surprise, and my head turned quickly back to face the dying robot. Megadeath, it appeared by the whips of smoke exiting his barrel, had made the decision for me and had taken it upon himself to oblige. My paralytic eyes revealed to me three distinct holes ripped into his head. The empty was dead, slumped to the ground, his fresh oil splattered to the wall of the crater behind where he had sat up moments earlier. I felt foolishly redundant with my arm still outstretched pointing at thin air and with the initial shock subsiding, returned my weapon to my side, dripping with the dark spatter of oil showered by Megadeath's victim.

Conflicting emotions wrestled with my neck hydraulics: shame dictated that my head remained lowered, but disgust at the sight of the corpse oozing thick oil forced me to turn my head away. Hatchet spat a few words of disgust of his own, but I was not listening; something about following orders and doing what I'm told when I'm told to do it, and something else about a court martial should it happen again. Megadeath had indeed stuck to his side of the bargain and had got me out of a truly compromising situation. It still did not make it right, but if I was going to get through this, allowing Megadeath to make my kills was something I was going to have to get used to. My senses returning, I became aware of the growing crowd of cadets that had gathered. Were their jeers the mocking voices of disapproval or the support of Megadeath and his actions? Right now I neither knew nor cared. Today's training was over and I left.

--

CHAPTER 6 General Infantry

Ever since my decision to quit Milatech I had felt repeatedly that I had ventured beyond the point of no return. Yet, upon reflection, at each and every stage I could have left. There would be repercussions, of course, had I quit the Decepticons at any point prior to today, or indeed in the future. I may have been hunted for my desertion, and probably executed upon my capture. Not a welcome prospect, granted, but for all their abilities to stop me physically, had I so desired I was still free to think about quitting, even if I never actually made any physical motion in that direction.

Today had changed all that, for though it could be argued I had not administered the killing blow personally, and while the dying Empty would have been killed by someone else anyway, his death was ultimately my responsibility. I had demanded that Megadeath carry out the evils I was unprepared to do myself. And in allowing him to kill for me, I was mentally bound by him and my own cause. To say there was no physical going back was to overvalue my own life. But the mental weight of the murder of this innocent Neutralist would encumber me forever, and I could not allow the hypocrisy of his death to be in vain. If before there had been no physical escape, now even my mental salvation had been enslaved. This time there really was no going back. Perhaps that was why I felt more motivated than ever. Or perhaps it was just the drink.

"You have to be more decisive than that," I commanded over another can of energon back in the barracks, "if you are going to make it as a Decepticon." Strong words. Evil words. I hated myself for those words. I was trying to coax a killer from the sanctuary of his own vulnerable mind. Here I was, too weak to do the job I was ordered to do, but was now ordering Megadeath to be strong enough to do my job for me. Perhaps my hypocrisy knew no bounds after all. "You have to be more decisive than that," I repeated, "if we are going to get anywhere."

He nodded to himself. "I know." He admitted. But for all his bravado, I felt Megadeath a little aggrieved at the situation himself. He was a self-confessed killer-wannabee, but he confided in me that the Empty he had murdered was his first kill. "It feels strange." He admitted. "I can't really explain it." He mused. "It sort of makes me want to smash something." he exubed. "It makes me want to kill someone else." He beamed.

"Really?" I asked casually. I knew the answer. Not yet, maybe, but one day, once the reality of shooting for survival sinks in, it would all be different. The sadistic methods of our training were a completely different set of rules and instincts to fighting on the Front Line. Megadeath's targets would be legitimate opponents, Autobots and other sworn enemies. While I got on with healing the fallen, Megadeath could shoot these opponents with a clear conscience. I just prayed he never came across any of the good colleagues I had met over the years, not least of which Brainstorm.

By now I knew he was right. The Decepticons and their methods were evil, surely more-so than the Autobots and their methods. He would not stand for such mistreatment of civilians from the Autobots. But I had to think of the bigger picture. I despised everyone here for their carefree and casual attitude to life. I especially hated Megadeath for what he was so-clearly capable of and in all probability going to become. But if this was just a means to an end, was there really no other way? Seeing the smoking relic slain by Megadeath in Valun, I hated myself for this whole situation more than I hated anyone else. But hate is a stronger motivator than love and for all my wanting to find another means, another way to the same glorious finale, without all the suffering and loss of morals, I had exhausted all my options, and the same bigger picture remained. They were the ultimate test, though. If it ever came down to it, who would I choose? Megadeath or Brainstorm? Anyone who knew me well enough would know there could be only one victor; the only problem was that only he knew that. That had to change.

The conclusion of our training came sooner than expected. Megatron had been pushing for Autobot cities like there was no tomorrow. Everywhere he went he would kill and leave a trail of destruction, overpowering anyone that dared to oppose him. He had taken the city of Kaon, and continued deeper into the state itself. He had also pushed south and succeeded in capturing a number of other high-profile cities. But for all their misdirection, the Autobots had slowly begun to fight back.

It seemed Megatron had allowed his troops to spread out too thinly and the Autobots knew this. They had tactically conceded 'undefendable' cities, withdrawing and redirected their troops together. Rather than fall in sporadic purposelessness, as a common pool, they might be able to snatch victory as a united front against one or two key Decepticon cities. Having initially underestimated the resilience of the Autobots, the fighting in Taggon was now stronger than ever, the city centre in danger of eroding into a single indefinable smoking crater. The united Autobot factions were honing ever closer capturing the south side of the Verdana Chasm. With troop numbers dwindling in this region, our inauguration became one rushed ceremonial blur. Before we knew it, we were soldiers and I found myself rifle in-hand standing on the Front Line, at a time that happened to coincide with a Lunar Correlation.

The Lunar Correlation was the phenomenon of six of the planet's larger moons aligning themselves to reflect the sunshine onto the surface. It was truly spectacular; a natural display of colourful awe considered by most to be the defining essence of Cybertron's beauty. While lighting the otherwise darkened regions of the planet for over two weeks at a time, the Correlation occurred perhaps just once every few thousand years or so. For the duration of the Correlation, the natural beauty of prismatic light and the spectrum of shadows it produced across the surface, made every day feel special, like it was the start of a new beginning of peace and prosperity.

Typically, the morning would grow from the misty grey haze into a glowing emulation of the natural light that reflected from all surfaces of the metallic planet. By noon, the panelled surface scorched and buckled under the intense heat of the day. The brightness requiring optical shielding in the same way the heat demanded internal temperature self-regulation using complex cooling systems. Yet appreciation of this rare natural occurrence was overshadowed, quite literally, by the Front Line and the struggle to comprehend that parts of Cybertron were so unrecognisably ravaged by war in this way, that the Correlation was completely overlooked.

Thick black smoke filled the air for miles in all directions, towering endlessly into the sky, leaving a permanent stench and a shroud that made differentiating the Autobots from the Decepticons, or even the living from the dead, an almost impossible task. This was third day of the Correlation, and arguably one of the brightest days for a millennium, yet the only illumination for this assault came from the infernos that blitzed the air, scratches of molten brightness against a midnight backdrop.

Then there was the noise. The roar of submission. As one, a thousand soldiers lay dying; wailing in pain merged into the relentless flak thuds captured in clouds of bass, and the higher shrills of lost missiles screaming for a target. The persistent awareness of perhaps one thousand simultaneous rifles and machine guns firing at any given time and the accompanying whistles of rounds, shells and pellets threatening to ricochet in my direction did nothing to ease me from my paralysis as I stood shaking in a vulnerable isolation.

I was in awe from the wordless panic that haunted my mind and the truly incredible vision I had before me. I was so far out of my depth, it was unreal. I felt like a Micromaster charged with taking on the mythical Chaos Bringer himself in an immortal hand-to-hand duel. I had been briefed, ordered to follow the foot soldiers into battle and help out the injured as best as I could. But where was I supposed to start?

The chaos of the Front Line, the apparent randomness in direction of fire, and the rapid deterioration of sight and orientation brought some comfort in that I could dispel the rumours of the misconduct that was the abuse of the Irongate Protocol regarding Field Medics. Artilleries pounded payloads into the thick smog without an evidence of a target. Low level aircraft would disappear into or emerge out of the smoke and flame with guidance systems so surely overcome by disorientation, their payloads were delivered more by luck than judgement, blinding bubbles of white life in a dark sea of death. Then there was the battle for the skies higher still. Anti-aircraft missiles and flak cannons thumped the air without any ability to determine what may have been flying above. Those below were reminded of the blind-piloted battle for aerial superiority of the smog every so often in the form of hulking, burned out shells that may one have been a Decepticon Seeker or Autobot jet appearing from the dense haze, crashing heavily into the ground. No, I was self-assured, Field Medic or otherwise, nothing could be 'actively targeted' by anyone in this hole.

But this 'comfort' was scant consolation to my worries that I would in all probability be put into the same position as I was Valun at some point. Would Megadeath help me out? What if he was nowhere to be seen? Could I do the job myself? Right now, for all my planning and the orders being repeatedly yelled at me, I could do nothing, along with many of the other rookies.

I had lived in Taggon for many years. I had been in this very spot countless times before, for beneath my feet lay the crumbling rubble of Milatech's deserted research laboratories. Perhaps just a few years ago, I had been working here in a very different capacity. But now, rather than trying to produce an augmentation device that would implement the theoretical solutions and prototypes of my personal 'medikit' project (as Grennis used to describe it), I was working to capture a territorial advantage. The significance of our environment was lost to all except me.

But there was no time for sentiment, as we had been told. I was soon rushed into the fray, ordered to follow the foot soldiers into battle and help the injured. For our years of inseparable and mutual companionship, part of me wanted Megadeath to go off and do his own thing. Yet equally, I had to monitor him and keep him in check. His controlled development was essential and I could not afford any slip-ups; the episode in Valun dictated as much.

For all my trying to think about Megadeath and what he might get up to on the Front Line, the reality of the situation kept coming back to haunt me. Nothing but nothing could have prepared me for what revealed itself. Most of us rookies were so shell-shocked by the Front Line experience, we were paralytic. But with the gradual realisation of our duty on this battlefield came the gradual reduction in our paralysis. By the fifth time I had been thrown off my feet by an explosion of close proximity, I was able to move my body and charge towards a stricken Decepticon.

In this horror of the Front Line I could barely remember Megadeath's very existence. Wherever he had gone, it seemed clear he had no intention of showing himself to me at this time, perhaps I would never see him again. Perhaps I had made the wrong choice with getting close to someone like that. I felt alone. I was alone. Even fate was against me, for when I had successfully stemmed the injuries of two or three fallen soldiers, I would see them die before me from the ricochet of random fire or shrapnel from exploding debris. Fate was evil. I was battered and scarred myself, covered in minor scratches and grazes, and more serious gashes and tears in my outer skins. It was not until I took a shot to the arm that I was finally able to recollect Megadeath and his vows to charge into the battle and fight. I even managed a smile of desperation. He had a long way to go. Right now it was certainly something I felt I could never do.

The damage to my arm was more severe than the friendly fire I had endured in Valun. This time I would require a longer recovery period. It was left up to me, mostly, to repair myself having received next-to-no help from the field hospital. I sat slumped against a wall in a familiar pose as I administered my own treatment. There was no room for me to occupy one of the higher-priority recovery pods. An injury as 'trivial' as an explosive round in my arm did not warrant any more than a couple of surgical tools and a corner of corridor space.

Just flexing my left arm was an almost impossible task. I knew, however, that this was not a permanent injury and that it would not be long before I could return to the Front Line so my cycle of pointlessness could resume. But for now the delicacies of Front Line surgery were unthinkable until my spasming arm regained some self-control. It was with the realisation that I would be incapacitated for perhaps as long as a week that Megadeath showed himself once more. He joined me in the shadows of the dimly-lit corridor and silently we watched as other medical personnel hurried back and forth carrying casualties that could be described only as half-way between living and dead.

Our silence in this frantic environment emulated our first encounter in the training courtyard those years ago. The horror of the Front Line had taken it out of us both. We had been expecting the worst, but the 'worst' had been fully redefined. Now it was a case of allowing the shell-shock to subside. Megadeath had been scarred too. He had endured much damage and had also been shot. Technically, as a medic he too was entitled to remain out of action until his injuries subsided. But Megadeath was not interested in surgery of his own or allowing his body to recover to the point of being able to administer surgery to himself or others. He could still hold a rifle and that was enough for him. Saying nothing, I stood up and left him alone.

A few days later, my physical progress had suffered a number of minor setbacks. My arm was drawing more and more strength but despite my incapacitation, because of my recent training I was constantly being called, and indeed volunteering, to assist those around me. It was something I felt I had to do. Inevitably this caused my injuries to drag on and in some cases worsen. My recovery was typically two or three days' progress, negated by my injuries worsening by a day. As such it was over three weeks since my initial injuries before I was able to return, as good as new, to battlefield surgery.

During this time Megadeath had been busy. His minor injuries were mounting, but he had overcome some of these ailments with sheer determination. He had said nothing to me in his daily visits, his appearance from the Front Line his only report, a report that told me simply that he was still alive. One such day, his silence told me something new. He had made his first kill, not some dying Neutralist in Valun, but a genuine opponent, an enemy. I could see him smiling, yet looking troubled at the same time. He was indeed still in two minds. "Be strong." I told him that day, but otherwise our conversation remained as silent as any other day.

Progress in Taggon was negative for both sides. One day the Autobots would advance then the following day the Decepticons would counter. By the third day, the stalemate had forged a larger gulf of no-man's-land between each faction's respective Front Line, decimated dead land filled with land-mines and automatic weapons drones buried under rubble and corpses. Then the cycle began anew. The futility of the war could be measured as a distance as day after day, mile after mile of the city collapsed into this wasted pit of death, land that was of no use to anyone anymore. It was like no side would be content until the entire planet was as dead and buried as the city centre of Taggon.

So it came as no surprise when the Autobots invaded the north side of Stanix. Having put the assault on Taggon on hold, forces had been redirected around the Verdana Chasm to the north and a massive ground assault had taken a number of cities that lay to the north of Stanix. Crossing the Chasm over the Sky Riser hyperways, they had taken the vulnerable city of Jenta as well as the region's capital, Scyk. Now they were pushing for Parranite and Devan. If they could take those cities, Stanix's final major city, Yuss, would fall allowing the reinvasion of Taggon from the north as well as from the west.

Megadeath was the first to volunteer his services in the counter-offensive. Morale was low. Decepticons were being pounded by the admiral Ultra Magnus and his courageous troops. It was bad enough that they had succeeded in taken Taggon's suburbs and reducing the Decepticon stronghold in the city to rubble. The city was falling, literally, by the day. But it was not supposed to work like that. We were Decepticons. We were supposed to be the warriors. We were not supposed to be pushed back. So to find ourselves attacked from the north too was to add more weight of misery to our encumbered minds.

But this mission was not one of voluntary assignment; Megadeath was to fight regardless. But his arrogant self-belief and confidence was awesome, an inspiration to new cadets and veterans alike. Standing up he screamed unrecognisable expletives ordering his fellow soldiers to stop being so pathetic, as he described them. I looked at my commanding officer. He knew better than to stop Megadeath when he was in full stride. His steadfast confidence in the briefing room may have faltered when on the battlefield, particularly when in contact with so many other troops attached to different units, but this rousing motivator of our unit was the only glimmer of inspiration in this morale-sapped team.

Indeed, in our redeployment to Devan Megadeath's confidence weakened a little. In the face of the scale of adversity we all weakened. Devan was a mighty city that we had to defend from a motivated Autobot assault force that had already captured this region's capital, a prize trophy for the propaganda machine. We took up our arms and braced ourselves.

If Taggon was considered relentless then Devan can only be described as continuous. Unlike Taggon where I was able to saunter off to the medical barracks once I had incurred a serious injury, we were pinned down. If you were shot, you stayed put. You stayed put until you died, whereupon you did not care that you stayed put.

Rumour had it the Autobot invasion of Stanix had the blessing of the local Neutralists. Their almost resistance-free entry to Scyk and beyond had yielded few casualties from either side, or indeed amongst civilians. The Neutralists had, in the main, been able to remain in their homes and to a certain degree, continue their day-to-day activities relatively unscathed. But Scyk and Jenta were taken by surprise and it was ignorant of the Neutralists to think the Decepticons would surrender Devan and Parranite so readily. With naive Neutralists thinking the battle would be as brief and pain-free as Scyk, they remained. A fatal mistake.

The battle itself was a blur. Several weeks of Autobot onslaught were staved at a high price. Though much smaller than Taggon, Devan was not spared the same fate. Our hollow victory had pushed the Autobots back at the expense of the city itself. Thousands, millions, perhaps, had been slain. The speed of destruction was as much of a shock as the decimation itself. Within this short space of time, the city of Devan was no more. The Autobot invasion quashed, it was as if their respective commanders had invaded with their only reason to prove they could pound the city until Devan resembled Taggon. If they had such intentions, they had more than succeeded.

Megadeath tried to rally our troops to fight back, but to no avail. His enthusiasm was curbed by my reluctance. I had passion, but I was not a soldier. How could I revel in this that Megadeath and some of the others craved? But Megadeath had succeeded in persuading me to follow him. My conscious efforts to keep tabs on him had resulted in an exchange in roles. He was now, temporarily, the master and I was his slave. Where Megadeath went, I followed. What Megadeath did, I emulated within the confines of my conscience. To let Megadeath out on his own would be suicide for both me and our long-term goals. It was time to let Megadeath be Megadeath, whether I liked it or not.

By the time the Autobots had retreated leaving the smoking rubble called Devan to the Decepticons once more, Megadeath had five confirmed kills and another five unavailable for verification. His fast hands and steady aim had caught the attentions of some of our team-mates, mostly surprised by the ruthlessness of this obscure medic and the skills he had developed.

Yet for all his passion and the gradual overcoming of his fears and this translation from briefing room confidence into more steadfast battlefield strength, I could see Megadeath was still a parallel of my own fears. As much as they recognised this snapping braggart was beginning to extend his confident rallies into battle, there was still a stumbling block to overcome.

And I was it. My insistence of accompanying Megadeath was holding him back, even if it meant defying my orders to stay put, something I had been so-far able to wing excuse-wise due to the incredible network of misinformation and disorientation on the Front Line. Either I was going to have to trust him to get on with his own work and let him off my leash, or join him in his pursuits at his pace, not mine. I was not ready to let him out of my sight, so reluctantly, I succumbed to him and his methods.

So despite my 'allowing' Megadeath his natural progression into this slight-confident soldier with the means to kill the odd enemy here or there, I knew there was more to come if I could just unleash him further. Sure enough, it was not long before Megadeath stumbled upon a new force to bolster his confidence further, even if it were at the expensive of his motivational effect. In truth, it was me that first offered Megadeath the questionable concoction of exotic fuels I had looted from a run-down den that had since been reduced to rubble. If there was one thing I could recognise in this squalor it was good fuel, or in this case dangerous fuel. Through my years of depression prior to joining the Decepticons I had wallowed in misery spurned on by these fuels and having lived in Devan myself for some time, I knew where to find it.

The strange fuels had an altogether strange effect on Megadeath. His confidence had extended beyond the briefing room and onto the battlefield, but now it was as if he were someone different. He would source illegal blends of fuel of his own from underground outlets rife throughout the military. Whereas the energon I had offered Megadeath was barely illegal, it was considered harmless by most without lasting effects. But this re-introduction to impurity was the catalyst Megadeath needed. He would return from his expeditions with harder and dirtier fuels for us absorb.

Megadeath demanded my participation in these horrendous supplements that I felt poisoning my mentality with every indulgence. And each and every time he pumped our fuel lines with his disgusting fuels, I became intoxicated by their lethal desires. As I struggled to retain my own thoughts and feelings, refusing to become totally immersed in my impurities, Megadeath would embrace the confidence-inducing toxins and charge into the fray rifle ablaze. We had kick-started his destiny. He was transforming.

I had always been in control. We had talked at length about the future, what it would hold and how we would shape it. We had discussed the time-frame, the contingency plans, our do-or-die methods. We had planned everything in detail. I had always been in control. Now, should he demand, I would oblige. After all, he was Megadeath, as he would remind me, and for the first time the general rule dictated I needed him more than he needed me. It was with this realisation that I was able to smile for the first time in a long time. The future was forming and it was grim. The future of Megadeath was forming and I smiled.

--

CHAPTER 7 Right To Bear Arms

As the years of abuse continued it was if Megadeath himself were possessed. The exposure of his new self-confidence surpassed even the gung-ho style of old. Battle after battle, Megadeath would charge into the fray his rifle ablaze, and me in tow acting as his personal look-out-cum-medical assistant. He was on a mission, of that there was little doubt, to be the top gun-hand in the division. He wanted to kill. It was as if he needed to kill to satisfy some personal addiction. If he were unable to gorge on the reckless massacre of an Autobot ambush, then he would turn his attention to his comrades.

As a Field Medic it was important to remain alert at all times. We were supposed to be on the field to help dying or injured comrades. We were supposed to be a part of Irongate. Irongate had no meaning to Megadeath however, who sometimes circumvented his anger upon his own team. Fallen Decepticons, injured by shrapnel, or with minor ballistic wounds knew better than to call for the services of Megadeath or me. If I allowed myself to cave to the compassion I wanted to show to a fellow soldier, Megadeath saw to it I was punished.

On one occasion I had been patching up some grunt or another (battleground protocol does not stretch to cover trivialities such as identification), his body badly scarred by acid pellets. Typically acid pellets are used to dissolve armour hides to allow more conventional weaponry to penetrate. But in this instance, the acid had entered his body via another wound and thus was suffering the pains of having his innards burning. Having toiled under the shelling of Autobot fire, it was not until I had succeeded in removing a large chunk of burning debris from his body and attending to the immediate priority of neutralising the acid that Megadeath chose to show himself. Finally, with my patient's death no longer an impending inevitability, Megadeath shot the soldier in the face three times from close range, unmoved the presence of a number of other young Decepticon soldiers that may have witnessed the whole event.

"We have a job to do." He would remind me in his own sickening way. He was right, after all. I did not sign up to join the Decepticons to play doctor. I could have remained a neutral by joining a civilian hospital if I had so desired. No, my agenda stretched beyond saving the odd life here or there. I was in this for the long haul and, paradoxically, to save the lives I sought to protect, I had to return to engaging the enemy, no matter how hard it was. I was adamant everything would pan out in the end, even if it were as difficult to accept as ever. Megadeath's self-appointed jurisdiction as the Decepticons' resident psychopath on the surface may not have appeared any different to the actions of many of his other high-octane colleagues. But beneath it all, unlike his barbaric counterparts, Megadeath maintained a level of intelligent understanding and it was with this that I was ultimately reassured.

By the time Megadeath came across the pistols, he had spray-painted a big red '50' across his chest, signifying his claims to having killed personally some fifty Autobots (amongst 'others'), alongside any number of enemy troops whose death could not have been confirmed. The way things were going, with Megadeath having already killed at least three more today to add to his tally, Megadeath could have continued in this manner with the desired effect, but as if he wanted to prove there were yet more points to prove, he took the two small green pistols from his slain victim and continued on his assault.

Megadeath had usually operated with a fairly standard-issue rifle designed for medium range conflict, but his insistence was to charge to the front to engage actively with his opponents. The tactics that had been painstakingly produced for each battle and encounter were lost immediately. He refused point-blank to support his fellow troops with the medical assistance they might need, claiming he could take more Autobot heads than any number of injured colleagues who he might be able to help. The bottom line was that methods resulted in more net kills for the Decepticons. Unfortunately for our superiors, he was Megadeath and he was right. "I am Megadeath!" He would hiss. "And you know I am right!"

But beneath this mindless bravado was an underlying intelligence few could deny. He was able to derive his own tactics on the spot. Augmented with my prototype 'medikit', Megadeath knew his systems could react quicker to damage than the vast majority of soldiers on the Front Line. He could shut down sections of each of his internal and external systems before the damage spread, right down to individual transistors. With my background in makeshift surgery and my operating solely upon one client, he had an understanding that of anyone on the field that might sustain an injury, there was no one better equipped to deal with that injury and move on.

And frequently we did. Megadeath was not untouchable, far from it. He sustained more injuries than most, as one would expect from such a hot-headed psychopath. Whereas some might prefer to pick off enemies from distance, perhaps allowing half of them to escape, but being sure of hitting the other half, Megadeath would jump feet-first into a pit of enemies and engage with all of them simultaneously. Tactics like this were simply not protocol on the field. Tactics like this were unpredictable. Tactics like this made Megadeath what he was.

The defence of Devan had been declared officially a success, but it was hard to see how. It was true that the Autobots had been repelled and no longer posed a significant threat, but the city lay in ruins and would require a complete rebuild once the war ended. That much, I suppose, was true of all cities on Cybertron that had witnessed the ferocity of the war first-hand. Taggon was barely recognisable as a city, the majority of its facilities on the north side and western flanks destroyed. I could not share in the triumphal jubilations of my comrades. For one, I had to attend to Megadeath and his multitude of injuries he had accumulated during the battle, and for two, I still hated everything this war had to offer.

Megadeath himself sat alone in the shadows of the barracks picking at gashes in his hide. He had become adept at minor repairs himself and perhaps one day would not need me to follow him so religiously. But for now he still needed me as much as I needed him to get through this nightmare, so I could not allow him to undertake the more delicate operations himself. As I tended to a tear in his leg and the damage to his hydraulics, Megadeath insisted in spinning one of his new-found pistols in his left hand, an immense distraction to me while I tried not to let my mind wander. I ought to have been focusing on the more important task of saving his leg from more critical or even permanent damage.

It was at about this time when the news of our transfer became known to us. Our entire unit had been lost in the battle for Devan. Typically, we had been separated from our superiors having launched a headstrong assault into the Autobot-held enclaves and as such had been spared their fate. Several direct hits from Autobot artilleries had resulted in the deaths of all our colleagues. It was another reason for Megadeath to smile. Our denial of orders had yielded at least three more Autobot deaths and a number of injuries, instead of our probable deaths had we remained in tow. "I am Megadeath!" He beamed, his only visible reaction upon hearing the news of the deaths. "And I was right!"

We had been re-assigned to Stalwart and his unit. He was a no-nonsense sort of robot, quiet and reserved, with the respect of his troops and was used to utmost compliance. Perhaps the powers that be sought to tame the beast that was Megadeath, but I already knew there could be only one outcome. "Stalwart wants you to report to him immediately." explained Battletrap, one of his troops and deliverer of the news.

Megadeath stopped spinning the weapon for the first time in hours and used it to point at the hole in his leg and the treatment I was administering. "I'm a little busy at the moment, can't you see?" He smiled. Battletrap shrugged nervously. He suggested we should go when I had finished what I was doing. "Sounds like a good idea." Megadeath agreed patronisingly, the subtlety lost on the soldier.

"Looks like we may have to start all over again." I commented passively after Battletrap had left. As ever, although the war as a whole had caused countless thousands, perhaps millions of deaths so far, masking easily Megadeath's own contribution, it was still painful to think the fifty or so lives lost as the result of my supporting of Megadeath and his actions may have been in vain.

Megadeath shook his head. "No." He argued. I got the impression Battletrap had not seen Megadeath before, but Megadeath was sure his infamous reputation had spread beyond his own unit and into Stalwart's. "It looks like the ground work is already there."

Stalwart was slightly unnerved by the shameful figure that finally bothered to report to him some two days later. Megadeath stood shaking slightly. This was not a nervous reflex, nor was it a consequence of his battered body. This was simply down to the substance abuse he had served himself with prior to finding his new commander. His makeshift appearance, scarred with temporary coverings for the damage and wounds he had taken over the years served to amplify his renegade reputation. By now, Megadeath had acquired a magnetic 'belt' around his waist, a couple of restraining points to clamp his treasured pistols to his sides rendering them ever-ready.

"Those aren't regulation." observed Stalwart. As ice-breakers went, it was not a good opener and probably only went to expand the gulf of mutual distrust. Megadeath shrugged. "Where's your rifle?" Megadeath shrugged once more and gazed disrespectfully over Stalwart's shoulder at nothing in particular, just to show he was not interested in eye-contact. Stalwart looked angry at his arrogance, but refused to be drawn into confrontation. That was not his style. Instead, he ordered us to report to the armoury to be assigned another rifle prior to our next mission.

Having been repelled of their invasion of both Devan and Parranite before, the Autobots had shifted their focus to defending Jenta, one of only two cities in Stanix that remained under their occupation to the far north of the region. Jenta was a small city bordering the eastern face of the Verdana Chasm, spawned from the junction a number of hyperways that bridged the Chasm into the Autobot-held Ferex region and beyond. The assault on Jenta was seen to be a dry run for the attack on Scyk, Stanix's capital, the final city under siege by the Autobots. Scyk also lay on the face of the Chasm, a number of important routes passing through the city and over yet more bridges into Ferex. If the Decepticons could take and hold Jenta from the south, they could join the troops in the ongoing battle in Scyk from the east and drive the Autobots back across the Chasm and into Ferex. The plan did not stop there, however, and with the capture of both cities and more importantly the bridges, the Decepticons intended a serious counter assault on Ferex, seizing the initiative by attacking from both Jenta and Scyk and via a number of other smaller access bridges. It was an ambitious plan that first required a successful re-invasion of Jenta.

'Life' on the Front Line was relentless. The energy-sapping efficiency of the war ensured there was no rest during the action, or indeed between conflicts. Once more we were dismissed to re-arm and prepare for the journey to the south of Jenta for the invasion. Megadeath seemed disinterested. As far as he was concerned, if he got to kill some more Autobots it was a good thing, but it did not matter where, or how this occurred. But, duly, we obliged and took our positions near the Front with Stalwart and the others.

Jenta was pounded for nearly a week by heavy artilleries until their aerial defences weakened allowing bombers in to pound the ground defences. Megadeath took this as an opportunity to join the fray. As a Field Medic, his role was ground-based, charged with helping wounded ground troopers. But for all Stalwart's shouting, Megadeath transformed into his bomber mode and took off into the air to join the low level aerial squadron. We were inseparable, so before Stalwart could stop me, I was airborne and joined the squadron.

The bombing raid was mostly successful for the Decepticons with just a small number of casualties, caused mostly by an anti-aircraft flak cannon that had been overlooked by the artilleries. Once that lone Autobot was taken care of, the Decepticons had much more freedom to choose their targets. Megadeath selected a number of fortifications that might otherwise prove troublesome to penetrate on the ground and once out of ammunition returned to the Front Line of ground troopers who had started their advance on the city.

We were quickly able to find Stalwart and the rest of our unit. He was not amused by our excursion although needed not remind us of our respective roles on the field. The charge had begun and the ground troopers and foot soldiers began their ground assault on the city. Stalwart ordered his troops into the fray, thrusting the rifle that Megadeath had deliberately left behind back into his hands.

Megadeath stared casually at his superior who yelled at us to join our comrades in the fight, pointing out someone who was already in need of medical assistance. Instead, Megadeath raised a knee to waist height, lay his rifle across his thigh and with one fell swoop, snapped the rifle in two over his leg. He released the fragments allowing the broken weapon to fall clumsily to the floor, still smiling and staring into Stalwart's optics, both equally undeterred by the series of explosions around us. It looked like Stalwart was about to strike Megadeath in the face, but the call of his name from another Decepticon captured his attention for a split second. That was long enough for Megadeath to turn and run into the fire-fight, screaming and howling, releasing his two pistols and shooting wildly into the smoke and mist.

By the time Megadeath returned to Stalwart, the Autobot forces in Jenta had collapsed under the sheer weight of the Decepticon advance. His casual reappearance accompanied his claim to twelve more kills, a greasy '65' now stained across his face in the oil of dead Autobots. "I've had enough of you." began Stalwart sternly. "Any more of that and I'll have you up before Megatron." Megadeath did not even flinch, but instead just pointed to the dirty number on his face. "Give me those pistols now, soldier!" demanded Stalwart.

"I would rather die." replied Megadeath casually but seriously at the same time. It was such an overstatement, but he probably meant it anyway. Whether his pistoleering made him any more of a killer than using a conventional rifle was difficult to judge, but what it did make him was renegade. He defied Stalwart, apparently, for the sake of defying him, like he wanted to remain some sort of independence from the cause. He was in this for 'the chase' as he had described to me earlier. So far as could be told, Megadeath was no Decepticon, he was just a killer that happened to have joined them rather than the Autobots. It just suited his own agenda to be given the targets to kill and the means to do so, rather than to indulge in freelance-psychopathism.

Stalwart was running out of patience with us and our predictable departure at the start of a fight. Megadeath and I formed his entire Field Medic allocation, but battle after battle, we would return from our own little adventure, Megadeath with another handful of kills to the good. This pattern of insubordination continued well into the assault on Scyk. By the time the Decepticons had recaptured the majority of the city, Megadeath's attendance in the briefing rooms was nothing short of a token appearance to prove his very existence.

Whatever his background, or whatever his reasons for choosing pistols over rifle, he must have had a skilled past to operate the hand-pistols in the way he did, like his surprising and initial recruitment into the Medical Corps was somehow justified by his skilful digits. For all his psychotic demeanour, one could be forgiven for thinking he had indeed accrued some past medical experience himself. The truth was, even I could not be sure of where he had come from, and if he would not tell me, then he would not tell anyone. He could operate his pistols with the skill and precision of a surgeon with his tools and through this unorthodox approach to the Front Line, he had succeeded in increasing hit 'hit-count' admirably.

Keeping up with Megadeath's wild disregard for authority on the battlefield was hard enough. But harder still was sociopath lifestyle he led off the battlefield. His anti-social behaviour was having an increasingly drastic effect on my health and well-being. The pure energon abuse, the narcotics and the shameless gun-toting left me feeling burned out and spent. But I had to continue this perpetual high-octane trip, for the good of the cause, else all this would have been for nothing.

Megadeath and I sat in a dark corner of the barracks, hidden by the shadows of statis tables, shifting his weight a little in order to make himself more comfortable. His latest injuries had just been patched up and included a number of shrapnel wounds. His fearlessness had seen to it that he would survive, just that he would incur injuries once more. His recent short-term soberness had caused him to be a little more relaxed with less of the hair-trigger temper he could exhibit while intoxicated.

As if on cue, he revealed a small fuel canister that had been re-used and obviously did not contain as per its labelling. "Come with me." He smiled, as if his very existence depended on the dirty oil mixing with that which flowed freely around his body, purely to encourage the revival of his mental status as a sadistic psychopath, a super soldier without compare. But if I were to prove my seriousness to our project, there was no way I could avoid the same. It was a commitment I had made a long time ago now. To earn his trust, I must do as Megadeath does. But how long would this last for? I closed my eyes and refused to look at the container and asked myself the question once more. "Come with me." He repeated. I was as much of a part of this as he was, as I concluded once more. His hypnotic voice had demanded and I obliged once more.

Megadeath had made me take whatever it was he had supplemented his energon supply with, under the relentless psychological pressure only he could apply. As far as I am aware, he then went on to take a greater portion himself, psyching himself for what lay ahead. The final assault on Scyk beckoned. What mind-warped scheme was he preparing for himself this time?

What followed immediately was a blur. I knew I was now in the briefing room standing alongside my fellow troops, once more making an appearance with the intention of leaving them for dust once more while I supported Megadeath on his one-robot campaign of mayhem. My focus was drifting in and out, my mind wandering in its own direction. Megadeath seemed able to take the narcotics on board with less ill-effect than me, and I slowly became aware of an argument between him and another soldier. It appeared Rampage was venting his feelings on Megadeath's unauthorised absenteeism from the unit again, claiming Megadeath a liability. "We are entitled to a proper medic in our unit." He demanded. "Not some junked up psycho who runs off when the fighting starts."

"I'll remember you said that, Rampage," muttered Megadeath almost to himself, almost but not quite, "when you take a spider shot." He smirked, referring to the colloquial name given to a particularly nasty nano-warfare viral weapon, so-named for its similarities to the web-weaving abilities of many arachnids found on primitive carbon-based planets. Though hard to penetrate into one's system, once inside, these nano-scale electrodes would nullify internal circuits in a web-like pattern with deadly efficiency and ease. Though any competent medic could halt and even reverse the process, without an immediate response, the patient could conceivably fall into stasis lock. An incompetent medic, however, or a medic who so chose to operate 'unprofessionally', could accelerate the process and amplify the damage rate at which the 'spider' spread around the body and the associated pain, with just as much ease as if he were to repair the patient.

Rampage's eyes narrowed. "I'm not scared of you." He spat confidently. "You're never around to see the action." He smirked. "I bet you just disappear to where the fighting isn't and just appear later and claim the 'glory'." Rampage grimaced, apparently in ignorance of Megadeath's multiple battle scars. "I'm not scared of you." He repeated, squaring up to Megadeath.

"No?" asked Megadeath feinting surprise. "But maybe you're scared of these?" He posed, slipping his fingers in to his unauthorised pistols, whipping them from his waist with lightning reflexes pointing both barrels into the eyes of his would-be assailant.

"Oh," mocked Rampage flinching just a little, "I'm really scared now."

"Oh yes," agreed Megadeath menacingly, "I can see that in your eyes."

By now Stalwart had crossed the room, his eyes ablaze with anger. "Give me those weapons now, soldier!" He yelled, barging into him from the side, pushing the pair a little further apart, clearly expecting resistance from his renegade.

"What, these?" asked Megadeath, innocently twirling them in his fingers. "Why, sure thing boss," he answered unpredictably, "I was only messing with him." He laughed, lowering his hands a little, but without handing over the pistols. Stalwart snatched them from him with such force he might have broken Megadeath's fingers had he not relaxed his grip at the right moment. "I don't need any weapons to scare this punk," Beamed Megadeath confidently into Rampage's eyes, "or anybody else." He concluded with an over-deliberate glance around the room. "Ha!" he screeched suddenly at a couple of our newer team-mates, hands outstretched with the only intention to make them jump unexpectedly. With them visibly shaken for a split-second and instinctively taking a step back from his actions, Megadeath broke into a deep sneer and a dirty laugh.

It was no secret that Megadeath supplemented his regular fuels with the exotic substances that we had indulged in earlier. Abuse in this manner was rife amongst morale-sapped soldiers and was usually ignored unless it had a major adverse effect on their performance. But it was clear that the narcotics made Megadeath the killing machine he was today, I knew that better than anyone, and as hot-headed and arrogant as it made him, to deny him that which fuelled him to serve the Decepticons so effectively would be a bold move. But his gain was his team's loss. His outrageous and unpredictably violent behaviour ebbed at the unit's morale. Expulsion seemed a little rash for such a ruthless killer, perhaps a voluntary reduction with a view to an ending of the intoxification was the answer?

Stalwart calmly asked him as much. Megadeath said nothing. But by now, the room had long since-emptied following the conclusion of Rampage's confrontation and the briefing as a whole, the last twenty minutes or so lost in my inebriation. Ordered to reassemble in three hours, the unit was dismissed, and as we left, Stalwart had called Megadeath to the side to speak with him in private. Megadeath obliged, and, as ever, I followed.

As for the reduction, I felt myself within two minds. On the one hand, I knew keeping up with Megadeath and his insistence on taking his dangerous stimulants was killing me. I could not take this much longer, physically or mentally. I needed a break. But on the other hand, I could not afford to give Megadeath a break. He was the very definition of intense and needed to maintain that intensity else weaken. Once more I found myself caving to Megadeath. The drugs could stop only once Megadeath was ready to stop and not a moment before.

What Stalwart thought of his recent exploits was written all over his face but he said nothing more of the spat between Megadeath and Rampage. What concerned him was our apparent over-dependence on these illegal concoctions. "You need to cut down." He advised again. He did not need to spell it out to us. I quite understood; just standing there required enormous concentration as my contaminated fuel over-stimulated my hyperactive mind at the expense of supporting my leg hydraulics. My vision was still blurred and despite my wanting to agree with him, I was equally aware of an inane grin across Megadeath's wobbling face, a grin that he just could not erase.

There was a short silence. There was nothing new for Stalwart to say. He had seen this all before from us. But Megadeath just continued his almost brain-dead grin, breaking only to open his mouth and feed himself a small canister of some wicked fuel or another that he had just produced from a side panel on his thigh. Stalwart lunged at Megadeath and his deliberate attempts to undermine and defy him, trying to knock the emptying can from his hand, but Megadeath was quick to shove him back, sending him sprawling across his desk. Megadeath was too strong for Stalwart and we all knew it.

"Just look at yourself." frowned Stalwart, shaking his own head and taking to his feet once more. Megadeath shrugged. "I had high hopes for you." Confessed Stalwart, hoping flattery might make an impact where orders had failed. "I thought you were destined for higher things." I smiled at this remark. If only he knew how high, and I was not talking about the narcotics. "But look at yourself." He repeated. "You are a disgrace to the Decepticon Army."

Megadeath grinned. "I am Megadeath!" he managed to utter confidently, if barely audibly, as a new wave of toxins took control of him. He mentally opened a panel that revealed a small screen on his left forearm with groped around it with a finger or two from his right hand. Connecting with the display that read 147 214 605, referring respectively to the number of known kills, probable kills and injuries to other soldiers he had 'credited' himself with on his days on the battlefield so far, he spat something equally inaudible. His point made, he closed the panel. "When you've served the Army as well as I have," he undermined, mocking Stalwart of his disproportionately low hit-count, "then call me and we can have this conversation again." Satisfied all that was to be said had been done so he picked up his two pistols from the desk and returned them to waist once more.

"Don't you bring those things to one of my briefings again, soldier." ordered Stalwart casting a glance at the weapons that now remained quiet on Megadeath's hips. Megadeath shrugged and turned to leave, and smiling a departing smile and he staggered out of the room. "And sort yourself out!" shouted Stalwart from behind as we left, also muttering something about laying off of the narcotics once more. Megadeath assured me Stalwart was not a problem. I did not know what to believe. In my inebriation, I could have believed anything anyone had said, were it not for Megadeath to set me straight.

The next few hours were a blur as the intensity of my overdose took an even greater effect. My mind was awash his thoughts and images that bore no resemblance to my feelings and judgement. I was aware I was doing something, but quite what remained a mystery to be resolved. But, as the influence of Megadeath's dizzying high-inducing 'special' fuels began to subside, and my filters began to purify my system once more, my head began to ache with the come-down and the realisation. With my condition of partial stasis finally cleared and I awoke to see just what we had undertaken.

Megadeath looked proudly at his arms. In our euphoric state, between us we had mounted his two trusted laser pistols onto his forearms, apparently with some considerable success, given the beaming grin across his face. The surgical skills I had developed for treating the wounded on the Front Line had now been used in augmenting this psychotic monster with permanently available weaponry. I felt a certain pride in my work for although it was crude and aesthetically impure, they appeared functional. For all my thoughts of my self shame of abusing my surgical skills of attaching weapons to my partner, I could not help be pleased that my handiwork could be so effectual despite my inebriation.

"Megadeath, you coming or what?" asked one of our platoon-mates. Judging by the urgency of his voice, it was probably reasonable to assume he had asked more than once and it was probably he that awoke us from our respective slumbers.

"Yeah." one of us replied groggily as we each took to our feet, and followed the last of the soldiers back into the briefing room to face Stalwart again. The familiar feeling of fear floated back across me as I saw the soldiers stood to attention, their minds clearly focused beyond Stalwart and at the real prospect of their deaths in the impending battle.

As I took my position in the group I felt a different fear, a personal fear for what I had done. I had augmented Megadeath's body without authority. I could not understand why I had done it. Megadeath wanted it, I suppose, and that was enough for me. If it served to irritate Stalwart, then that was no concern to me, or if it were to act as a sign to others, then that too was immaterial. I just wanted to as sure as the voice that told me this from within my head.

We were all assembled and quiet as one when Stalwart marched into the briefing room. We were supposed to be undertaking a weapons- and systems-check during that the time between briefs as Stalwart consulted with his superiors detailing the attack formulations. Our take on a 'weapons-check' had struck a nerve. "What are those?" He demanded.

"These?" asked Megadeath with mock innocence, rotating his elbows and then his wrist joints too, bringing the modified pistols into view.

Successful speakers are quiet. I had witnessed as much during my years as a student. It is easy to hear the voice of a booming giant, but a quieter, more reserved character requires the utmost attention to follow. Background chatter masks the intentions of the quiet speakers, so by nature of their quietness, one must concentrate harder to pick up the importance of these intentions. If you have something to say, say it quietly, so dictated the maxim, a tactic that forced an audience to listen. Stalwart knew this and ordinarily this was a tactic he would adopt. He was a quiet, well-respected soldier known for his reservations towards anger. But even the quiet ones are allowed an off day.

"I want those things removed." He bellowed. As quiet as he was normally, when Stalwart bellowed, he really bellowed, with an indefinable over-compensation. "Immediately!" He demanded, pointing to the door, wanting him to march right to the infirmary or somewhere else for surgery. I wanted to feel concerned for my part in this abomination and the trouble I would find myself in when it came to his attention I was responsible for the 'upgrade'. But more than that I felt intrigue for what Megadeath going to do next. Life, to him, was a game, a charade of existence itself.

"Okay." answered Megadeath casually, taking a moment to cross his arms, but otherwise to remain motionless.

Stalwart's anger was clear; his patience for this insubordinate had long since escaped. But, surprisingly, for all his shouting, it was hard to hear him, for the moment he screamed the word 'Now!' right on cue, Megadeath obliged. With his right arm folded under his left, Megadeath unleashed the power of his right-arm-mounted pistol, aimed directly at the elbow joint of his own left arm. As the burst of energy blasted through his hydraulics, it continued outwards and across the chamber, right before the face of Battletrap who stood immediately to Megadeath's left. The room was in shock.

The hushed fall of quietness was broken only by the fall of the now detached left forearm of Megadeath that had remained imbalanced for a moment upon his right arm, finally tumbling to the ground with a silence-shattering metallic clang. Then the silence returned. Stalwart stood open-mouthed, the rest of his face unaltered from his petrified expression of anger. The only evidence that he had witnessed the event was that his eyes were now focused on Megadeath's left arm on the floor, his own arm still outstretched and pointing at the door.

As if Megadeath's very smile might break the quiet, Megadeath turned to his left and faced the shocked Battletrap that had seen a powerful laser pass by just inches from his face. "Didn't think that one through, did I?" smirked Megadeath. "Look." he commanded, a grin upon his face, waving his broken arm in the air. Battletrap's head, physically shaking from his brush with near-death, turned slowly to his right to see Megadeath's smoking left stump pointing at the elbow of his right arm. Clearly Megadeath felt it amusing that he was unable to shoot off his right arm at the elbow too as his left hand now rested peacefully on the ground. He bent his right wrist a little as if trying to aim his right arm at itself. He shook his head finally admitting defeat at his physically impossible challenge. "Can anyone lend me a gun?" He asked flippantly.

I, too, was in shock. He had just blown his own arm away. What was he thinking? It must have been the narcotics? Surely? I nodded to myself. They must have had a bigger effect than I thought. But was he not in pain? He smiled as if he did not feel the pain, like his pain had somehow been transferred to Stalwart, Battletrap and everyone else in the room for them to feel instead, myself included. It was a truly disgusting scene of masochism, him stood there laughing while his oil and fuel gushed from his left arm.

Stalwart must have known that I had done the work on Megadeath. That much went without saying. As he finally regained his own composure, slowly he brought his pointing finger around to face us. "You," he began, extra slowly and extra quietly, as if speed and volume were competing for lowest rank, his finger extending to us, still shaking a little, "get out of my sight." Megadeath shrugged, and I bent down to pick up Megadeath's limp left limb from the floor. Silently we left the chamber. Every whisper that called him a 'psycho' seemed louder than the last as each soldier questioned Megadeath's sanity or indeed their own. Had they really witnessed what they thought they had? As we passed by Stalwart by the door, Megadeath smirked at his serious stare that had not broken contact since the incident.

They felt better off without Megadeath in the field. That crazy fool was a loose cannon and a danger to himself and other, stronger, faster and more skilful soldiers, elite soldiers whose well-being must remain a priority over Megadeath's. His fellow soldiers were, in the main, brutes of brawn not brains. They would do as they were told when they were told. They were dependable to do as was expected of them.

Conversely, Megadeath was of an undoubted intelligence, anyone could grasp that. Those that spoke with him could feel his mind operating on another level. It was not the job of a soldier to think; thinking was the job of the officers and tacticians. Yet he had succeeded in retaining his pistols over his rifle, a single example of his stubborn, rebellious mindset. Perhaps the only thing more dangerous on a battlefield than a soldier making up his own mind is a soldier making up someone else's mind for him. It was possibly only Megadeath's natural repulsion that prevented such potentially disastrous influence on the battlefield. No, all in all, they were better of without him.

But had they truly felt so strongly about Megadeath he would have been executed, or ejected from the Army at the very least. The truth was Megadeath was a determined killer, a killer like no other, a killer beyond reason and comprehension, like the fictional delights of some warped fantasy. When on active duty, he did not rest until he had claimed as many lives as he could. He may not have excelled in the individual traits of some of his comrades, but none of them possessed the determination of Megadeath, the self-belief that he was in this with a point to prove to himself, a reckoning, perhaps, that only he could fully understand or fulfil. The level of his desire to be number one was matched only by the level of uncertainty that blighted his sanity. If this could be overcome, or at least tolerated, then Megadeath might become fearsome beyond reproach, the model Decepticon soldier. The question was not whether or not his superiors would accept him for his psychological misgivings, nor indeed whether he could accept them himself. The question was whether or not I could.

Megadeath smiled as we walked down the corridor. His internal systems had shut down oil-flow around his left arm and the gushing sludge had dried to a slight drip. Carrying his severed arm prompted me think of the consequences once more. I had been responsible for mounting his weapons onto his arms. Would I face a Military trial for this? What would become of Megadeath? Whatever happened, I had faith that I had acted in accordance with my plans. The bigger picture had to come first and if there were to be local repercussions, then so be it. Could I accept Megadeath for his psychological misgivings? The truth was I would not have it any other way.

--

CHAPTER 8 Conviction

Under the influence of his narcotics, Megadeath was perceived as a mindless lunatic. His violent streak emerged, an unstoppable force of wanton destruction dictated by a hair-trigger anger. His reputation was spreading. Everywhere he went he was given a wide berth. Dying soldiers no-longer saw Megadeath with his light insignia as someone to request assistance from, but someone to avoid. To the ill-informed, it might have appeared that Megadeath actually enjoyed his crusade of sadistic destruction, but he was wearing his emotions inside-out. Inside he was a killer, but on the outside, I knew precisely what he was. Did the narcotics make him a mindless lunatic? The truth was the reverse. It was precisely because of their influence that his mindful true self emerged.

But this recklessness could not last forever; I could not last forever. I would be burned out trying to keep up with the pace of his insatiable appetite for intoxification. But what could I do? I had already committed myself to him. I knew right from the word go that he was the one for me, the one to take me to where I needed to go, the one to take me to where no one else could lead me. I had to keep up with him at any cost, at any rate. When, or if, he chose to end his mind-warping dependence on his narcotics, I too could, but until then I needed to remain in touching distance of Megadeath. To falter now would be to admit defeat and my work would have been a waste of time.

This recursive image of defeat had spurred me on through these dark days. Even as I struggled to re-attach Megadeath's shattered arm to its socket, still reeling in the shock myself, I did not permit myself the emotional sanctuary of contemplating another way out. This was how it was and how it had to be. I was confident that one day this 'mindless' junkie would become what I could never be but it was going to take time, and, ultimately, episodes like this were the cause not the consequence.

With the tools of the hospital at my disposal for me to correct the disfigured soldier laying at my mercy, Megadeath refused the help of others, insisting that I alone were to operate upon him. His distrust of others stretched beyond paranoia. Only I understood why he had done what he did and no one else could possibly accept these reasons just yet. Time would come and time would tell and when it came and told, all this would have been worth it. But for now, it was Megadeath and I alone, something I was used to after a life of personal solitude.

Despite the pain and discomfort he now felt, I was able to tweak his augmented joints and once his arm had been fully repaired, it was stronger than ever. He was so impressed by his additional strength in his left arm that he nearly blew off his right arm in order for me to upgrade that too. Perhaps I ought to have let him; he was Megadeath after all, as he reminded me at the time. Whether it was a moment or weakness or strength to defy him, I opted to systematically remove his right arm and upgrade it in a similar way to his new left arm, rather than allow him to shoot himself once more. Regardless, Megadeath just got stronger.

All the while Megadeath would watch and learn. His education was as paramount as any other factor in our collaboration. I was expendable, ultimately, and if my time was up, it was going to be up to him to take over where I left off. The control of his anger at my insistence he did not blow off his right arm too was one such example. He learned that anger was all well and good in its place, but on the operating table, precision and control were more important. He commanded that I conclude my rather hasty and botched job of attaching his laser pistols to his forearms, integrating them more fully into his systems. Having fully reworked his left laser pistol into his arm, Megadeath undertook a small part of the operation to complete his right arm's laser himself. His anger was more controlled, which I felt was an excellent sign, but there was still a long way to go.

Despite the misdirection of enemy fire and the associated dispelling of the myth regarding the disproportionately high likelihood death rate the Medical Corps suffered over regular soldiers, attempts to defect from the Corps were rife leaving a significant medical deficit. As such, to rebrand oneself from the Medical Corps was an offence punishable by court martial. But with his infamous repute, Megadeath no-longer considered himself a Field Medic and repainted his insignia accordingly, and to heck with the consequences. He knew his battlefield prowess gave him the self-appointed right to bend the rules. And I was his personal assistant, so my insignia darkened in sympathy.

During our time in the infirmary, we had missed the big push-back of the Autobots out of the north of Stanix. They had succeeded in forcing them back across the bridges from whence they came. The plan was to follow the Autobots in their retreat and cross the bridges ourselves and take the Autobot strongholds on the far side of the Verdana Chasm. However, each of the numerous large bridges across the Chasm linking Stanix to the Autobot-held regions had been sabotaged, along with many of the smaller ones, plunging miles to their respective ends at the bottom of this enormous gash in Cybertron's surface. Rebuilding these bridges under battlefield conditions was not an option. Effectively, the north of Stanix now remained isolated from the potential threat of an Autobot counter invasion by land, but equally prevented the Decepticons from attacking these Autobot-held cities. Stanix was secure, and if the Autobots wanted to take the region, then now they would have to resume their push from the south through Taggon and Yuss.

As such, Stalwart and his crew had been relocated to Taggon to bolster the Decepticon efforts to repel the Autobots' southern flanked attack on Stanix. Stalwart had made no effort to locate us and inform us of our unit's departure. So far as he was concerned, Megadeath was history and his unit was better of without that psychopath. So having missed the call for relocation to the south, Megadeath and I were no longer attached to any unit and remained in limbo to the Decepticon cause. We could have left the Decepticon Army for all they knew, gone AWOL without fear of repercussion. We were living statistics lost in an army of dead figures. If it were not for Megadeath and his growing influence, I might have been tempted to take advantage of our floating status and call an end to the horror I had endured since joining the Decepticon Army. But quitting would have meant this was all for nothing, and Megadeath would not have that.

We located a registrar and claimed our absenteeism was authorised for 'surgery'. We chose not to inform him we were officially Field Medics for I had no desire to return to the Front Line just yet. Proving Megadeath's credentials as a soldier, that which had necessitated our being on the Front Line, had now been accomplished. We had another job to do next. Had we disclosed this information, we would have been relocated to Taggon too as Medics were in just as short supply as they had always been. The fact that Megadeath's recovery was complete was another fact we chose to omit. So instead, in recognition of Megadeath's recovery, we were relocated to the remnants of Devan to assist in a new investigation that had come about some time after the Army had headed south to Taggon.

We were reassigned into the care of Snapdragon, an up and coming soldier-turned-officer-wannabee. He was hot-headed in battle, but meticulous and intelligent off the field. His record spoke for itself, boasting a kill ratio closer to Megadeath's own than anyone else I had met. In a way, he was almost the combined form of Megadeath and me, if such a twisted creature could exist. Intelligent and methodical, but a lethal and sadistic killer also with an arrogance to rival Megadeath. He claimed his mediocre ranking was an intermediate step to greater leadership responsibility. What made things worse was this was painfully true. He was indeed destined for higher things; it was just a matter of time. He was never going to die on a battlefield; he was too good for that. He was an excellent soldier, which served only to amplify my displeasure. And if it were true to say I disliked Snapdragon, then Megadeath could easily justify the word 'hate'.

Upon meeting with our new commander, the situation in Devan was explained. A number of agents had been detained, each accused of espionage and sabotaging the Decepticons' attempts to take advantage of their push by destroying the bridges over the Chasm. With the exodus of soldiers to Taggon there was a desperate shortfall of soldiers to deal with the aftermath of the failed strike, namely the trial of these six so-called traitors. It was decided that one or more of the six suspects were double agents, despicable foes, Autobots pretending to be Decepticons pretending to be Autobots. If they could prove the legitimacy of the other five, they could return to the field and continue their invaluable job of enemy infiltration and intelligence gathering, while the fate of those found guilty did not need an explanation.

It was not our job to investigate them, of course. We were to oversee the imprisonment while the real investigators apportioned blame and determined their respective levels of guilt or reinstated their trustworthiness. With the other guards, often wayward from their respective divisions having been injured in the big push, we were able to form a rota system by which we could guard the cells of the detainees, and by as early as the fifth day, Megadeath had become impatient.

His gung-ho nature was far from abnormal on the Front Line. The words 'stealth' bore little or no meaning to him, nor did those he met. Autobot, Decepticon, sentient or drone, Neutralist or neutralised. "I am Megadeath!" he would tell everyone he met, usually just before he blew their head away. "I am Megadeath!" But here in the relative quiet of a makeshift prison in touching distance of distrusted detainees, it would have been difficult for anyone to hold back Megadeath, and I was not about to try. Megadeath was who he was and if his current deployment started a new chapter in the saga of his charisma than so be it.

He flexed his joints slowly as he had become customary since the completion of his operation. He cast an admiral gaze across each both of his arms, smiling at the green lasers that were formed a functional collaboration between his body and his single-minded desire to achieve the status of his dreams. His fists clenched and opened, then clenched again, perhaps trying to recall his old-self, now just a memory to his stronger, more aggressive form.

Megadeath and I stood with Sinnertwin on duty over the cells. The square room had two cells apiece on each of three walls, the remaining wall housing a doorway to a long corridor. There was a gaping hole in the roof above where we stood either side of the door at the top of a short flight of five or six steps. It was damp and dark, and as silent as night. The six detainees had each taken their time to plead innocent to the charges before them, taking turns in pointing the finger of blame to another prisoner. They were not the traitor, it was him, or him, or maybe him. But by now, with the effect of their respective pleas doing nothing for them, it was time for their quiet.

Until now, we had avoided this sentry duty aside from a short ten-minute spell on the second day. I had chosen to assist with the repairing of a few injured soldiers, claiming my medical knowledge was co-incidental and not disclosing my defection from my Corps. Megadeath chose to do nothing. But this was our first real stint on the job and the frustration was already showing. Megadeath lived for his reputation; he breathed the very words spoken about him like some carbon-dependant organism. It was time for a new direction for him, as I had made him so-aware, but I was beginning to think we had taken a step back.

"So you're Megadeath, then?" asked Sinnertwin breaking the uneasy silence finally with a long, drawn-out over-emphasis of his second word, crossing his arms and turning his head to face him. Megadeath's eyes narrowed but he said nothing, choosing to maintain his stare into the cells ahead. "I heard you're supposed to be a bit of a psycho." He laughed.

"I am not supposed to be anything." He snapped. "The only thing I am," he continued turning to face his partner in the eye, "is Megadeath!" He hissed with a sinister smile.

"Yeah," began Sinnertwin slightly nervously, "I see," The quiet returned for a few moments. I was looking through the hole in the ceiling when he spoke once more. "So is it true you blew your own arm off?" He asked. "I heard Stalwart was so angry he threw you out of his unit?" Megadeath relaxed his crossed arms, his eyes shifting their focus to his new elbow joints that rotated instinctively, recalling the gruesome event. "It must have made a mess." smiled Sinnertwin. Megadeath lifted his head to face him once more.

"I'd show you," he promised menacingly, "but I don't think you could tolerate it."

Sinnertwin looked at me. I could not be sure what Megadeath was thinking. He was his own mind with his own thoughts. But I was fairly convinced he might reproduce the whole episode should he be pushed and I really did not want the job of reconstructing him again. "That's okay." He answered finally. "I think I can imagine."

Megadeath shook his head. "No one can imagine." He whispered almost to himself. "No one can think the unthinkable." he prophesised cryptically.

"Yeah? Well I think I know enough to know you're as insane as they say." laughed Sinnertwin. Megadeath was not laughing. The silence of the radical killer absorbed Sinnertwin's dying laughter until its strength had been sapped completely. A painful chill blew across the room like the attention he warranted was being amplified by some unknown force of evil. It was a chill that explained that Sinnertwin would be wise not to get him angry.

"So, do you know anything about these guys?" I chirped, trying to hold Megadeath back a little to avoid an unnecessary confrontation. I knew I was wrong to do so and in hindsight should have let Megadeath continue to do what he did best. That was, after all, why I had chosen him. But his unpredictability was gathering momentum. He had been without his narcotics for some time now and the come-down was having a further destabilising effect. What he might do next, even I could not hypothesise. Sinnertwin looked a little surprised by the interruption himself as indicated by a change in facial expression. "The spies, I mean." I clarified.

Sinnertwin unfolded his arms and shrugged, taking a glance at the cells. "Traitors." he speculated. "Or at least one of them is."

"But which one?" asked Megadeath quickly with a smile. He had already re-seized the initiative. He took a couple of paces forward, walking casually down the steps towards the cells, and gently wrapping his fingers around two of the bars of the first cell Inside sat a Decepticon agent, one of the six accused of double-agency. He was slumped against a wall to the left, staring at the opposite wall to the right. Like all the prisoners, he knew we were talking about them, but he tried to concentrate on maintaining his focus-less gazes across the cell. "Was it you?" asked Megadeath with a broad grin.

The detainee said nothing and chose not to turn to face his aggressor. The evening moonlight reflected in little streaks along Megadeath's fingers as he flexed them uncontrollably around the bars. "I asked you a question." He reminded the prisoner, who finally broke his stare and looked over his shoulder at Megadeath. He shrugged. Megadeath frowned.

Taking to his feet the prisoner walked forward, wrapping his own hands around a couple of bars of his own. "No." He answered quietly and calmly, shaking his head a little. Megadeath leant close to the Decepticon, their faces separated by a short gap of air between a dozen or so reinforced bars. He maintained his stare into the eyes of the prisoner for a moment, before turning his head to face Sinnertwin.

"He says he didn't do it." shrugged Megadeath. Sinnertwin looked at me. "But what do you think, Sinnertwin?" Sinnertwin shrugged himself, unsure of the point Megadeath was trying to prove. "Well," he paused, "do you know what I think?" Megadeath's rhetorical question was met with another slowly animated shrug. Megadeath's beaming face returned its gaze to the eyes of the prisoner. He smiled a smile that told us all that he did not even care. The prisoner's face managed an uneasy smile of his own.

Then, with the reflexes I had seen of him on the battlefield, Megadeath released his grip on his bars and clamped them down securely onto the clenched hands of the prisoner. His grip was clear, for as much as the prisoner tried to pull his hands free, his hands were held fast. I was captivated by the reaction of the helpless prisoner but I was aware that Sinnertwin took a step or two towards Megadeath with curious anticipation. Megadeath looked over his shoulder towards the slowly advancing Sinnertwin, his head revealing he was still at a loss with the scenario.

"You wanted to see it?" asked Megadeath, tightening his grip further on the prisoner. Sinnertwin's head shook slightly, not to express his dissatisfaction, but to portray his miscomprehension of the situation. Still facing Sinnertwin, Megadeath allowed a faint hum to emanate. The humming grew louder and deeper, a glow emitting from each of the lasers now mounted securely on his forearms. As if sensing the impending danger, the prisoner began to struggle harder to escape, pressing his feet up against the bars to in a desperate attempt to give him more leverage. But Megadeath was too strong and held his hands around his captive's own as if commanding an unwilling dance-partner.

"Bang." Whispered Megadeath softly, drifting into a short pause. The pause was just long enough for Sinnertwin's facial expression to curl a little, still unable to understand the point Megadeath was trying to make. He opened his mouth to speak, and in doing so formed an unwitting parallel to Stalwart in the briefing room incident. But this time, Megadeath's lasers were not aimed at his own elbows, but at the panicking robot that struggled in his cell.

The laser fire burst over Megadeath's wrist and pounded heavily into the arms of his victim, causing two thick gashes just above his wrists, Megadeath maintaining his grip on the robot's hands. But with the weak-points in the detainee's arms that Megadeath's lasers had just caused, and the almost super-robotic strength the he was trying to exert to pull his hands free, all he succeeded in doing was ripping his own hands off at these gashes.

Sinnertwin took a step back with an audible gasp, echoing the prisoner that flew backwards across the cell, screaming in pain. Megadeath just stood and smiled, holding the two limp hands in his own, leaving Sinnertwin to stand open-mouthed, his hands raised slightly as if trying to shield himself from the sight before him, but unable to cover his optics through morbid curiosity.

The stricken prisoner crashed heavily into the back wall of the cell, oils and other fluids flowing freely from the stumps that once formed his wrists but now connected his forearms with nothing but thin air. The shock of this barbaric amputation was evident as he scrambled around the floor, his arms rolling over each other as he tried to stem the oil-loss from one wrist with his other hand, only to find that each hand was not there. His eyes danced from left to right trying to confirm his position, or perhaps hoping it was not real. But each time he glanced to where his severed hands once existed, he exhibited another gradually-quietening whimper.

Sinnertwin's eyes had been doing a dance of their own, switching focus from the stricken prisoner to Megadeath's maniacal grin and back again. "Don't say it." smiled Megadeath, holding back his twisted laughter. "Oh go on then! Someone give him a hand!" he laughed, the decision to give into a sick desire to make light of the pained robot a foregone conclusion. He took a step back from the cell still holding the severed hands, and performed a pirouette with his invisible partner. "Here!" He called to the prisoner, throwing his hands pointlessly back into the cell. The robot scrambled once more as if somehow he might be able to reattach them unaided, an impossibility that caused more amusement in Megadeath.

"Primus!" Sinnertwin whispered to himself, or perhaps to the deity himself, looking down at the floor as the injured robot's oil now covered the cell and ran under the bars collecting under his own feet. Megadeath ignored the thick brown flow of grease and stepped back up to the bars once more, staring and smiling, at his 'work' that whimpered with spasms of pain.

"Does it hurt?" He mocked. I was appalled, but I had dictated this behaviour of Megadeath, so somehow I was not shocked. I just had to stand there and let him do his own thing. If this was Megadeath then so be it.

"You really are insane." stammered Sinnertwin, like he had finally accepted his reputation was not all for nothing, far from an exaggeration, but an understatement.

Megadeath rolled his eyes in submission. "Okay, okay!" He muttered to himself like he was willing to make a personal sacrifice in the name of compromise. He looked into the cell at the scared prisoner whose oil now flooded the entire cell, thick dirty streaks of sludge staining the walls and floor. Megadeath shook his head and raised an arm. Within seconds, his trademark triple burst of power blasted laser fire into the head of the detainee ending his sorry life.

Sinnertwin took a step forward and leant against the bars of the door between himself and the corpse of the suspect, still shaking his head. How was he going to explain this one? Well, he was not going to take the rap for it. It was Megadeath that killed him, after all. He looked back over his shoulder to see Megadeath standing, smiling, looking up at the sky through the hole in the ceiling once more, disinterested in the episode completely.

"It's a beautiful night." He remarked passively, admiring the stars coming into view and one of Cybertron's moons that had been floating by for the past week or so. His attention was caught momentarily by the heavy clunk of the cell unlocking and the inevitable squeak from is worn hinges as Sinnertwin opened entered the dead robot's cell.

"We've got to get this sorted out, now!" He demanded, turning around to face Megadeath whose attention was still up in the sky.

"Huh?" He muttered, smiling at another star that was coming into view. I kept looking into the sky, hoping that if I could not see the carnage, then perhaps it might all go away. But Sinnertwin was insistent calling Megadeath's name loud and clear. Frustrated, Megadeath turned on his heel to face Sinnertwin. I looked over to see him holding the messy corpse, dragging the filthy body still oozing oil out of the cell and into the middle of the room.

"We'll say he tried to escape." He suggested as he thought on the fly. "We can say he had a gun." He continued.

"No." replied Megadeath calmly shaking his head.

"No?" asked Sinnertwin instinctively. "Then what? We have to do something!" He spat. "We're going to burn for this!"

"You want this sorted?" asked Megadeath taking a step closer. Sinnertwin nodded. "Then leave it to me."

Sinnertwin looked into Megadeath's eyes for a moment, but they revealed nothing. "Fine." He snapped. "It's your problem," he continued slamming the corpse to the ground at the bottom of the steps, "you sort it." he finished taking a couple of steps and sitting at the top of the flight, rubbing his hands as if this futile motion might wipe the oil from his person.

Megadeath stepped casually over the body when walking around it might have been easier, but this way was far more emphatic. He selected another cell at random and marched hurriedly over. The suspect now stood with his back to wall, facing Megadeath, but his trembling hands firmly by his sides, well away from the door.

Megadeath tipped his head to one side and asked the question as if it were a trivial formality whose answer had no bearing on his inevitable response. "Are you the traitor?" The prisoner was speechless with fear. He shook his head once or twice. That was enough for Megadeath. He raised his arms and activated his lasers once more, firing perhaps nine or ten rapid twin-bursts into his face and chest, the point-blank range causing his body to erupt splattering oil over his cell too. I turned my head in disgust as Megadeath turned to find another cell; Sinnertwin bounded down the steps, hurdling the corpse in the middle of the room with fury in his eyes.

"What on Cybertron are you doing?" he demanded, arms outstretched as if to throttle Megadeath. But with precise timing, Megadeath brought out a toughened arm of his own and using Sinnertwin's momentum against him, struck the stampeding sentry in the face sending him sprawling to the floor.

"What I said I'd do." He answered calmly, but the venom in his voice was barely disguised, angered by the questioning of his actions by Sinnertwin and my own wordless expression of disapproval. "I'm sorting it." Sinnertwin brought himself to one knee holding his jaw probing for damage at the point of contact. Megadeath faced the third prisoner. He did not need to say anything. He just raised an eye with a shrug. Was he the traitor? Megadeath did not even wait for a response and continued his merciless campaign of murder.

By now one of the prisoners was pulling at the toughened bars, screaming and shaking the door trying desperately to break himself free. As Megadeath stepped delicately towards the panic-stricken robot, sidestepping and slowly coming into his vision with his wide grin all the more menacing given the fresh oil that had splashed across his face, the futile shaking of the bars slowed to a stop. "How about you?" He asked after a suitably sinister pause. "Are you the traitor?"

He had nothing left to lose. Whether or not he was the traitor seemed immaterial to Megadeath, indeed it was seemed immaterial to him too. "Yes." he stammered slowly. Megadeath said and did nothing. "Yes!" he repeated louder and stronger, starting to shake the bars once more. "Yes! I'm the traitor! Let me out of here!" He screamed hysterically. "Yes! I'm the traitor! Let..." His voice was interrupted by the noise of the cell door unlocking. Megadeath extended an arm and pushed the door open wide, and then gestured for him to leave. By now Sinnertwin was on his feat, but the carnage was beyond redemption. Whatever Megadeath was doing, he was in no position to intervene. Now it was just a question of waiting to see what developed. The detainee took a nervous step forward, one leg out the cell.

With speed, strength and a heart-felt laugh, Megadeath slammed the cell door once more, crushing the robot's knee in the process. He screamed in pain, a scream so loud it eclipsed Megadeath's laughter momentarily. The door singing back open, he grabbed his leg instinctively, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his twisted hydraulics. Megadeath was not finished and slammed the door once more as the prisoner tried desperately to remove his leg from the doorway. This time the door caught his trailing ankle, severing his foot completely. Screaming, he fell backwards into the cell with a painful thud. By the time he had lifted his head off the ground and raised himself from his back a little with his hands, Megadeath had whipped open the door once more and was leaning over.

In one swift move, he grabbed the stricken robot and threw him out of his cell and into the middle of the room, sending him crashing into the handless body that already remained as he collapsed under the instability of his broken ankle. His attacker walked casually back out of the cell slamming the door shut behind him with a thunderous echo. "You didn't really think it was going to be that easy did you?" laughed Megadeath kicking the corpse aside and standing over the petrified prisoner, one foot on his throat pinning him to the floor. The writhing robot tried in vain to push the weight of Megadeath's leg from off his neck but it was to no avail. Megadeath pointed his arm-mounted laser at the face of his foe. "I am Megadeath!" He reminded everyone, and promptly blew his head away.

The mess of the four corpses had now spread over most of the room. Their oil and other fluids had crept up and now both Sinnertwin and I stood in hideous pools. But Megadeath had not finished. We all knew what was coming. He would not stop until his goals had been achieved and the two remaining prisoners could do nothing. They had fallen silent having accepted their impending fates. Still standing atop his latest victim, Megadeath outstretched both his arms, pointing a weapon at each of the two remaining detainees. "Any last words?" He asked with a shrug, but without waiting to listen, fired his lasers through the bars of their cells, simultaneously finishing off what left of the six suspects.

Finally the shedding was over and Megadeath walked back over to the steps and sat down, smirking over his kills. He nodded quietly to himself and looked up to the stars once more. I sat and took out a can of strong energon and offered it to Megadeath, but he seemed disinterested. Sinnertwin managed to overcome his paralysis and sat down on the steps beside me and away from the collecting pools of oil, shaking his own head.

The room was awash his colour as the oily resins glistened in the moonlight, the beauty of filthy spectra trying to masquerade the horrific event. Sinnertwin was shaking. It was clear that he had never witnessed such wanton violence before. I was quite sure that prior to today he might have laid claim to such events, or indeed made outlandish announcements of his own gruesome past to either impress, amuse or terrify those around him. But Megadeath's systematic massacre reminded him that as 'evil' as the Decepticons were, some stood out head and shoulders above the rest.

"It's okay." I tried to reassure him, offering him Megadeath's fuel instead, which he duly took and drank in one gulp before discarding the can and burying his head in his hands. "Go get yourself cleaned up." I suggested, reminding him of the dead robots' oil that had begun to dry on his bodywork. "You were never here, okay?" He lifted his head from his hand and looked at me as if unsure how to accept this change in mood.

Megadeath's short fuse re-ignited. "Get out of here!" he echoed more forcefully. Sinnertwin stood up and surveyed the slaughter once more with a shake of the head. He muttered more expletives about Megadeath and his mental imbalance. Megadeath stood up with a start and shoved Sinnertwin in the side, almost pushing him out of the room. "Get out of here!" he shouted once more. Sinnertwin had no desire to remain any longer than necessary and was soon bounding down the corridor fearful of his own fate. Soon his footsteps were a distant memory.

"You've really done it this time." I announced to myself, shaking my head at the pending repercussions. Megadeath sat down again and looked up into the skies once more but said nothing. A smile crept across his face followed by a short sigh. He opened the hatch on his arm and updated his hit-count with another six kills.

"Thanks." He smiled, taking to his feet and walking over to the cells again. "I think that did the trick." He beamed with pride and left the room himself. I followed but said nothing myself. I could almost see Snapdragon executing us in my mind. I had allowed Megadeath to slaughter six suspects, when in all probability only one of whom was guilty of treason.

Then as suddenly as the unprovoked Megadeath assault, the alarm signalled loud and clear. The token red lights flashed ahead and above as two guards burst out of the observation room. By now, it was obvious; the monitors displaying footage of the cells had been noticed during one of the routine thirty-minute checks. Either that or Sinnertwin had actively raised the alarm himself. "What's going on?" bellowed a heavy voice from another room. It was Snapdragon, and he was angry.

His menacing figure burst into the corridor, rounding the corner and colliding heavily with me as Megadeath and I walked the other way. Falling into a heap, I felt his incensed emotions burning into me as he focused and realised who I was. He wrapped his hands around my throat threatening to crush my spinal circuitry spitting venom and screaming, demanding an explanation for what happened in the holding room, why I had not intervened, why I had allowed Megadeath to undertake his ruthless actions. But Megadeath was too fast and pushed him off me, and in turn, held Snapdragon against the wall by his throat, slamming him by the face into the side of the corridor. The two powerful robots maintained their stances, each a hair-trigger from exploding into a full-on fight. But I held Megadeath back, undermining his independence momentarily until he released his commander. He grasped his throat as I had done at the slight crushing we had both experienced, and allowed ourselves a moment to calm down. By now three or four other robots, including Sinnertwin, were standing around us.

Snapdragon said nothing, but his eyes told us to talk, and to talk fast, and furthermore, it had better be good. "Those guys did me a favour." began Megadeath, an instinctive nod down the corridor to the scene of the massacre. "I needed a good excuse." He smiled, although I knew he was not talking about the killings. "So I thought I'd return the favour," He continued, "and sort out your little problem."

Snapdragon's eyes narrowed under his cracked visor. "They were under investigation!" he growled, fists clenched. "We were that close," he continued, raising a hand, his finger and thumb barely apart, "to knowing who the..."

"No you weren't!" interrupted Megadeath taking a step closer, swiping Snapdragon's hand away and glaring into his face. Snapdragon's eyes widened a little allowing the faint red glow of his fury to intensify slightly. "Don't you see?" Megadeath dared to undermine to the outrage of his commander. "You were no closer to knowing anything. Not about the traitor. Not about anything." He smiled. "You only know what they told you to know." Snapdragon lashed out once more and went for Megadeath's throat, wrapping his powerful hands around his neck, forcing Megadeath down to one knee, his arms flailing to grip anything. "But now," he spat, a hand now pressed against the floor to take some of the weight of his buckling knee, "now you know the most important thing of all." Snapdragon's grip tightened. "Or did you miss it?" He stammered. Snapdragon thought for a moment. What was Megadeath talking about? What did he know that Snapdragon did not? He disliked being taken for a fool, but more than that he disliked being kept in the dark. He relaxed his grip and Megadeath fell to the floor gripping his neck for a moment. "Don't you understand?" He asked again finally, his eyes looking up at the figure that towered over him. "How could you ever be sure? You had them all down as suspects for one reason or another." He reminded Snapdragon. "How could you ever trust them again?"

"They were suspects!" reiterated Snapdragon with a deep booming voice. "They weren't all traitors! Just the one..."

"One." nodded Megadeath facetiously. "How do you know?" He asked. "Perhaps there were two? Three?" He winced, hauling himself to his feet. "They could have all been in on it together," he suggested, "laughing at you behind your back."

It was courageous stuff, some might say foolish. Megadeath was able to bad-mouth his commander in front of his own troops. But Megadeath fresh from his own fight, oozing confidence such that it might mix with the oil of his victims that still covered him. He was sure of himself so I had to be sure of him also. "The investigation would have shown..." explained Snapdragon.

"Nothing!" snapped Megadeath. "They were under investigation for a reason!" He persisted. "And that reason was that you didn't trust them!" He emphasised with a sneer. "It doesn't matter who the traitor was!" He continued. "It didn't matter who was going to be pardoned!" Megadeath's eyes were burning with ferocity of his own. I felt myself nod subconsciously agreeing with him. I knew what was coming. "The point was you could never trust them. Not again."

"The investigation..." persisted Snapdragon.

"Investigations go wrong!" screamed Megadeath, turning on the spot and punching the wall of the corridor behind him, hard, such that a few cracks appeared. His burning face turned back to Snapdragon. "Don't you see? Have you not seen this place? I don't know if you noticed, but we are at war! It is the time for instinct, not speculation!" Megadeath calmed for a moment. "Can you honestly say if any of those wretches were found not guilty," he continued, pointing down the corridor towards the holding room, "you would ever trust them again, as an agent, no-less?"

Snapdragon looked unsure. "I'd stake my life on it." He answered finally. But I saw the tell-tale signs that Snapdragon was weakening, that perhaps he was lying, saying one thing and thinking another. He was trying to retake command of the situation, but no one could deny Megadeath's point. For all his fleshless bravado, it was hard to counter him.

Megadeath raised a hand as if waving away his remark in disrespectful dismissal. "I don't care about your life." He declared, sensing Snapdragon was now of the defensive. "I care about the lives of my fellow soldiers, lives trusted under you and your command." It was a rousing sentiment, a spin on his real motivation, but enough to make Snapdragon's other troops think hard about who was in the right here." He had entered into a conflict with Megadeath that he was unprepared to win. He was running the risk of losing the respect of his troops, and we all knew this. "Would you stake your reputation on it?" asked Megadeath.

"Who are you to talk about reputation?" snorted Snapdragon. "You have none."

"I am Megadeath!" He hissed once more. "I have a greater reputation than you could ever have! Now answer me!" He demanded insubordinately. "Could you trust any one of those with the lives of your troops? Could you stake your reputation on it?" He bellowed.

He could not. Megadeath's tactics of whole-hearted intolerance and trial by fire were ruthless, bloody-minded, but ultimately efficient. Why risk the lives of ten thousand troops over the result of an investigation that may or may not be completed accurately in this time of misinformation and despair. Why waste time and effort convincing yourself your special agent is on the level. The only way to be sure he would not shoot you in the back was to eliminate him. So what if it meant executing a few good agents who may have been innocent? It was the only way to be completely sure. Megadeath had done just that and shown a level of conviction beyond anything Snapdragon could rival. Snapdragon's eyes lowered momentarily as if he had forgotten who was in charge. He was beaten. His eyes suddenly lifted with rage as his head turned to face the surrounding soldiers. "What are you staring at?" He yelled. "Get out of here!" They did, and fast.

"It's the only way to be sure." Megadeath spoke softly after his colleagues had left as if reading my mind. As angry as it made him, and as extreme as they were, Snapdragon knew such tactics were not only justifiable in this war, but were the marks of a true Decepticon. Compassionless and leaving nothing to chance, Megadeath's extreme methodology put shame to Snapdragon's own.

"Yeah?" asked Snapdragon. "Well," he continued trying to sound a little more authoritative, possibly trying to redeem his faltering ego, "perhaps one day I will have to investigate you." He speculated, as if relishing the prospect, possibly already trying to find a scenario. His face clenched. I knew as well has he did that he was going to make this his mission, his goal in life. "If," he continued, "and believe me, when, that happens, I'm going to enjoy making you a victim of your own radical policy." He growled with a nod towards the end of the corridor where the bodies of the agents lay. "Just like you made them." His eyes somehow found a way to tighten further that telling us he was watching us and would do so even more closely from now on. But for all his superior rank, Snapdragon's authority did not cover personal vendettas. And we knew it. He could not risk revenge for this insubordination without damaging his own aspirations. And we knew this too. "One day, when I'm in charge around here," he continued, not just talking about his immediate rank superiority, but prophesising much greater authority in the future, "I'm going to hunt you down," he promised, "and kill you."

Megadeath smiled. "Just remember the name." He taunted, as if it were possible to forget, unperturbed by Snapdragon's threat. "I am Megadeath!" He beamed. "I am Megadeath!"

--

CHAPTER 9 New Depths

Megadeath's dissent had caused quite a stir in the ranks. The ease in which he had undermined our commander with the suggestion that he cares more for his reputation than the safety of his troops, those who might be at risk from intelligence of questionable reliability, had not gone unnoticed. In a way, Megadeath had added a new dimension to his personality. He was not just a brutish thug with a lust for killing, but also a reasoned and manipulative individual. He could think on a level of his commanders, yet talk at a level aimed at his fellow soldiers. With such low morale amongst the troops, making a martyr of him might be tactically dangerous. His influence may not have been great, yet, but the potential was there. It was up to the powers that be to determine the best way to harness that potential in a more controlled manner.

So, they, in their ultimate wisdom, thought they could promote this aggression out of him. They thought, hoped perhaps, that his liberal independence may be attributed to his frustration of his social misgivings masking his abilities as an otherwise excellent soldier with more kills to his name than anyone of such a demeaning rank. There was more to him than this, of course; these 'misgivings' were far more fundamental than his ambition for leadership. Regardless, he was skipped three whole levels of commandment and was instilled as an officer. Perhaps by being involved in the planning, rather than being summoned to obey, he might comply. His rank would allow a direct say in forthcoming strategies, but allowed him to remain active on the battlefield itself.

But for all his ground-level involvement, his new position would dictate he would spend more time off the field. I had no interest in working alone, and as if we were joined at the hip, where Megadeath went I continued to follow.

During the next month we were assigned to assess the progress of a number of new recruits for amalgamation in to our command. It so happened we were stationed, not so much alongside, but certainly too close to Snapdragon for comfort. The tension was unavoidable. Snapdragon still felt humiliated that a (then) common soldier could undermine him and yet his superiors had chosen to promote him rather than execute him. If he had had his way, Snapdragon would have taken satisfaction in seeing Megadeath perish. But our superiors recognised the potential strengths in Megadeath, for all his failings, and more importantly, the potential for martyrdom, propaganda they could ill-afford to allow the Autobots to acquire.

So when I again refused an offer to team up with Shockwave in Tarn, Snapdragon was summoned to Krok, Stanix's ruling military governor, and the other top brass. If Megadeath and I were too stubborn to leave Stanix, perhaps the best way to relieve the tension would be to promote Snapdragon out too. It was an offer he took little time in considering. Before practically the words were out of his mouth, Snapdragon had accepted Krok's offer of promotion and the transfer to Scorponok's command that accompanied it.

Snapdragon resided in an office on the same corridor in Fort Scyk as we did, hence our unavoidable contact on a daily basis. He wasted no time in gathering up his equipment and readied himself to leave Stanix. Megadeath and I were standing on the launch pad, as if to ensure he was going for good, but both he and Snapdragon said nothing on his departure though. His only acknowledgement was to point a silent finger across the air to Megadeath and score that finger across his neck, offering an oath of oil, the calling card of a personal vendetta.

With Snapdragon finally out of the picture, Megadeath and I felt freer to assess the rookie soldiers. The official line was to ensure that only those ready to fight were assigned. The reality was that even those that were still some way off such a status were rubber-stamped for duty. If Stanix and its troops still had something to offer the Decepticon cause, then it was not going to be these cadets.

With the permission of Krok, we spent the next few months working on logistic operations. In particular we were in liaison with Shackle, a Neutralist-turned-Decepticon that once headed the local security forces in Stanix, now based in Parranite. He explained that there were thousands of robots wandering Stanix, shell-shocked into oblivious misrecollection of their duties or simply absent without leave, possibly trying to shirk themselves of their Front Line responsibilities. Together we devised a network of information distribution to gather these nomadic troops once more for re-use in combat. We used everything from propaganda and bounty hunters to good old-fashioned advertising. We were surprisingly successful and were able to round up nearly two thousand troops to send south to assist in the defence of Taggon, a city that had now been smashed in conflict beyond all recognition.

Upon hearing the news of our success Krok intercepted these new platoons of regurgitated soldiers, informing us of a new, higher priority. This new mission had been in the pipeline for months. Following the Autobots' sabotage of the bridges connecting Stanix and Ferex across the Verdana Chasm, it was believed the only way in and out of Stanix was via the conventional land approach from the south. On the surface, it was clear that eighty to ninety percent of these bridges had been destroyed fully, with most of the remaining bridges little more than skeletons that would shake into collapse were anyone to even set foot in its vicinity.

However, closer inspection revealed there was but a handful of bridges that remained more-or-less intact and the Autobot's failed attempt to destroy this small minority was not as severe as first thought. But even the most optimistic logistical analyst would have to agree that those that remained were in no condition to be negotiated by a platoon of Decepticon soldiers, the weight and shock-loads would surely force their collapse. Nevertheless after months of analysis, a single bridge was identified as final possibility for a ground invasion of Ferex. Could this one bridge maintain just enough structural strength to support the same invasion they had planned earlier? Speculation was not enough though, and a number of secret surveillance missions had been undertaken to assess its damage and determine just that.

Since the sabotage of the bridges across the Chasm, we had seen from the Decepticons' Stanix side that the Autobots were bolstering their anti-aircraft defences in Ferex at the expense of their ground units. As far as they were concerned, there was to be no ground invasion and their troops had already been reassigned elsewhere. If an invasion were to take place it would be by the air, and with their new defences in place, they were ready for it. As far as they were concerned, therefore, there could be no invasion of any sort.

The element of surprise was crucial to our attack so despite the precariousness of the bridge, grand-scale repairs were out of the question. It would alert the Autobots and faster than we could repair it, they would have destroyed the foundations on their side, finishing the job they had started. No, the Decepticons had to run the gauntlet and cross the bridge swiftly in once fell swoop. The majority of the reports that had come in from the Decepticons' surveillance and assessments amounted to the same. The bridge would 'probably' withstand being crossed by the troops, to varying degrees of certainty, depending, of course, on the course of action the Autobots retaliated with.

"I'm going." Megadeath announced quietly to me one day in our office. I nodded. He demanded involvement in the plan from the beginning. In his position he could not afford to delegate, for the trust was simply not there. I knew and understood what he meant. For all Megadeath's trivial attitude to killing, he was preparing were to plunge to new depths. There would be thousands of deaths, of that there could be no doubt, and his intentions were to strike personally the killing blow on each and every one of them.

I looked at the flask of fuel we had procured from some despicable outsource or another, probably pilfered from some dying robot, blended with exotic additives to provide that extra kick. I braced myself for the inevitable intoxification, but this time it felt different. I flicked off the cap and I swilled the fuel in a circular motion, watching as the bubbles dared to surface momentarily before being absorbed back into the central greasy vortex. I paused and allowed the mixture to settle once more. Megadeath was looking at the fuel too. I exerted a slight shrug and twitched my wrist, extending the offer to him.

For a moment he was thinking. This was a big ask. Surely even he was going to have trouble adding a couple of thousand to his hit-count. If the Autobots had done a proper job of destroying the all bridges in their retreat then none of this would have been necessary. But as it was, we were going to have to take them by surprise and in this confrontation there could be no half-measures. "You want any of this?" I asked solemnly. His eyes never refocused from the flask, but his head tipped from side to side in deliberation. Now held in his hand, he raised the flask up to the sunlight that beamed in through the office window and allowed the rays to penetrate the semi-translucent material such that the diluted pink fluid glowed and glistened within. The sediment settled and the microscopic particles made their respective descents back to the base of the flask again.

Megadeath's head shook slowly but deliberately. "No." he answered me finally. "I don't think so." He finished, placing the tainted fuel back on the desk and staring at it for a moment longer as he confirmed his decision. "This one comes straight from the heart." He concluded, his clenched fist lightly pounding his chest. I understood and nodded accordingly. With a sigh of satisfaction, he walked outside to the aero platform and reverted to his aircraft mode, taking to the skies and flying towards his destination.

I must confess, the truth worried me a little, but I always knew this was coming, or at least I had hoped it would. Megadeath's ability to think on a scale so menacing precious few others could comprehend had been brought about mainly because of his mind-warping toxins and other fuels he had been abusing. But now he had reached his higher plane. He was so used to dealing with the extremes of his mind he was now able to do so without the need for his narcotics; Megadeath was clean, yet paradoxically, the cleansing of his body of his drugs had left the dirtiest of all minds behind. Megadeath was now the living, functioning body of extreme and unrepentant malice, or at least he was in my eyes. I still found the scale of this latest attack incredibly daunting, but with Megadeath functioning on a level perhaps only I could comprehend, I could rely on him to keep me in check.

I spent the rest of the day considering the data regarding the structural integrity of the bridge. How strong was it really? Would it really survive the additional stresses that a thousand troops crossing it might cause? If the Autobots could react fast enough, could they destroy the bridge in time? It was all very hit and miss and this was why Megadeath had chosen to fly personally to Jenta to inspect the bridge. If he was going to go through with this we had to be one hundred percent sure we were going to be successful.

Through Megadeath and the data he collated covertly about the weak-points on the bridge I was able to make my calculations. With each and every consideration I would arrive at the same conclusion - it was simply too close to call. To be absolutely sure, we would need to give the bridge a helping hand. We managed to identify seven cross-member supports on the bridge that were particularly at risk. Were these to be damaged under the weight of a thousand Decepticon troops, the bridge's collapse was inevitable and there would be nothing anyone could do to save those unlucky soldiers. Reinforcing these members was key to the success of our mission.

Quietly Megadeath and I spent the evening discussing our plans and re-confirming our previous conclusions that we could not afford to take the risk of failure. I agreed, but it was equally clear our commanders would not look favourably on our plans. Traditionally, Megadeath was seen to be about as covert as a nuclear explosion so had we expected some resistance to our request to oversee personally the discrete bolstering of the weakened bridge supports. We were not disappointed in this respect.

"You concentrate on your troops." ordered Krok still neck-deep in the logistical problems presented by Operation Highwire, as it had become known. But for security reasons he would not confirm the exact date and time the invasion would take place. All we knew was that we were to attack the city of Bana in the Autobot-held region of Ferex, across the Verdana Chasm from the outskirts of Jenta.

If we could take Bana then we can move from city to city along the Autobot side of the rim of the Chasm and destroy them all, until we come to Taggon. Our forces in central Taggon can hold the advancing Autobots in position while we come in from behind. Then it will be just a matter of time before Ultra Magnus and his troops fall. That was the plan, anyway.

"But if we should fail, and the bridge should collapse..." Megadeath objected. Krok's eyes narrowed.

"As you well know," began Krok, nodding towards Skydrive, his chief scientific advisor, "we have undertaken a number of structural assessments to determine its integrity and each time..."

"We?" asked Megadeath. "Are 'we' all going to be crossing this death-trap bridge?" he spat, casting an ugly glance at Skydrive. Skydrive was an intelligent advisor of considerable repute, but ultimately was not built for warfare. It was clear he was not about to accompany Krok on his mission. Megadeath stepped up to the scientist and scowled. "You're nothing but a yes-bot, telling him what he wants to hear." he undermined, ignoring Krok's fuming presence for a moment before turning quickly to face his commander once more. "You trust him? He's not even involved in the mission!" He bellowed banging both fists down heavily on the desk such that the whole console shook momentarily.

Skydrive was not the only assessor on the advisory team that would not be taking an active part in the assault, another detail Megadeath reminded Krok of. "All I want is an independent enquiry," reasoned Megadeath, "before I set foot on that bridge." he continued. "Because unless you are risking your own neck, in my experience, sometimes one's judgement becomes clouded." he suggested, offering a glance to Krok's scientific advisor. Megadeath was right. As one of the troops risking his neck in the attack, he had additional motivation for seeing the job completed properly. "Look," calmed Megadeath, standing up straight again and crossing his arms, "I'm not saying they are not right, just that I want to be sure." he finished.

Krok was mulling this over when I chipped in my own stance reminding him of my scientific past and the role I could play in this assessment. He looked a little surprised at my analytical background, but when it was clear Megadeath was not about to take 'no' for an answer, he finally agreed. Besides, Megadeath, for all his uncouth methods, had succeeded in creating a reputation for himself. He had already succeeded in bringing Snapdragon's authority crashing down with the suggestion that he cared more about glory than his troops, and Megadeath was more powerful now than he was then. The risk of a Megadeath-inspired mutiny for the sake of denying him what in essence was a reasonable request of a second opinion was unhealthy. "But this is on your head, do you understand?" he warned us. "I've seen what happens when you get one of your ideas," he explained referring to Megadeath's well-documented outbursts, "and if anything - anything - " he stressed again, "happens to jeopardise this mission..."

Megadeath smiled. "Believe me, I am 100% committed." This much was clear. "I just want to be sure that the bridge is as committed as I am." By now, Krok had wasted too much time on this trivial matter as he saw it and dismissed us, giving us twenty hours to make our report else there could be no going back on Highwire.

In practice, that was more than enough time. Megadeath and I had already completed our analysis and had drawn our own conclusions, something we chose to omit. Now it was a case of acting upon them, something we knew we would never be permit to do ourselves. At least now we had authority to be in the area, so if we were spotted (by a Decepticon at least), then we would not face discipline. Packing our construction materials and other devices into our cargo holds, we flew to Jenta to make the structural modifications we felt we needed to be sure of the success of our mission.

Away from his narcotics, Megadeath's natural quietness prevailed once more and as unlikely as it might have seemed to an outsider, we were made a stealthful partnership. The bridge was precarious at best, creaking and groaning under the strains of the icy wind that blew in vortices around the Chasm. But once we had waited for the cover of nightfall, it was a simple job of scanning for, and monitoring, the look-outs on the far side of the canyon before making our approach to the weak-spots we had already identified. It was simple because, as we expected and confirmed, there were no look-outs on the Autobot side of the Chasm. As we had discovered previously, the whole city of Bana was in the process of preparing for an aerial invasion, not a ground assault.

With our prepared equipment to hand, we attached various vital but deceptively trivial-looking components to the bridge supports with utmost dexterity. Our training as surgeons assisted us in our operation, achieving more in this isolated environment than a whole team of construction engineers could, only without such a likelihood of being spotted. As we had predicted, the whole job had been completed in a little over two hours.

"Easy." I muttered to myself, admiring our handiwork from distance once more.

"The perfect crime." agreed Megadeath. "I don't know what all the fuss was about."

We could have probably achieved this result without consulting Krok first, but we both agreed it was best to get his permission first. Had we been spotted by a Decepticon, we would have had some serious explaining to do. We may have been suspected of tampering with the bridge and with Megadeath's dubious reputation, it was something we could ill-afford.

We made our return to Scyk to find Krok up to his neck in more logistical problems, but we were able to forge a gap in his schedule to deliver our report. So busy was he with his own affairs, Krok had almost forgotten the request we had made to investigate the bridge, so I took it upon myself to refresh his memory. "We asked to assess the structural integrity of the bridge for Operation Highwire." I reminded him. "And my report is that," I paused, "well, the bridge is fine. There is now no doubt in my mind of the strength of the bridge. It will do the job." I summarised. I could almost hear Megadeath add the silent word 'now' in recognition of our additions.

Krok looked blank. "Is that it? Is that everything?" He had been expecting more. Never expect anything from Megadeath, that was the rule, but surely he deserved something? Megadeath concluded that with our benefit of our own judgement, we could now be assured of the success of the mission, assurance that could be passed onto the troops beneath us, those that would be venturing where the scientists undertaking the original analysis would not be stepping foot. Krok was angry; it was clear in his face. His time had effectively been wasted and time was a precious commodity given the timetable for his assault. Knowing that Megadeath was not about to champion and mutiny against this assault came as scant consolation to him. "Get out of my sight!" he boomed and Skydrive ushered us from the room.

Megadeath smiled and turned to leave. "See?" mocked Skydrive. "I told you there was nothing amiss." he boasted as we left the room. "We were right. Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"Doesn't it just?" grinned Megadeath, stepping outside to the launch pad and transforming. "Doesn't it just?"

The next few hours were spent back at the barracks, assembling our troops and briefing them. Megadeath's style was typically unorthodox. With Megadeath it was difficult to know when he was being serious. This did little to boost morale.

The soldiers knew there was a risk with this mission, a co-ordinated stampede across a rickety bridge to assault prone Autobots expecting an aerial assault. The questions hung in the air. How did we know for sure the Autobots have packed up and transferred their ground defence units? How did we know for sure the Autobots were not expecting us? And how did we know for sure that the bridge would remain intact? After all, the very reason for this surprise opportunity came about because the Autobots themselves had come to the conclusion it was not strong enough to cross, thus giving them the confidence to redistribute their ground troops.

To the question of whether the Autobots lay in wait or not, Megadeath replied with cussing and calls of cowardice. At one point he told them he expected them to die, or if not then he would kill them himself. He even conceded that a number of troops would fall even before they began the assault. The bridge was in no condition for risk-free passage by such numbers at speed; there were areas that could not be fully inspected and if the odd support here or there should give way, the odd soldier here or there might literally fall through the crumbling bridge into the abyss.

But he did, however, offer assurance that while the breaking of the odd member or so might result in a minority of sacrifices, the overall integrity of the bridge conformed to the plan, citing his personal inspection. "Do you really think I would step foot onto that bridge if I thought it was going to collapse?" he remarked, and reminded his wary soldiers that though there were no guarantees regarding the secrecy of the planned assault, it was through his own policy of zero tolerance towards suspected spies and double agents that the Decepticons could take a certain degree of confidence in their surprise attack.

This did lift the sparks of the troops for a while. Though perhaps sharing a common attribute of mine, an inability to speak authoritatively en masse, he did and said enough to get his point across. As I had dictated of him, he delivered the bad news regarding the potential failures of the plan first, leaving a more positive, rousing and confidence-inspiring finish declaring that establishing a stronghold in Bana would be the beginning of end for the Autobots' fight back in this area.

Our choreography planned in detail, all that remained was the execution. This was easily the biggest operation I had been involved in since my signing up to the Decepticons, and while it made me shudder to the core with shame, Megadeath held his head high with pride. So it was odd to think that if all went according to plan, neither he nor I could dare to take the credit, yet if it went horribly wrong, then blame would certainly be laid squarely across our shoulders.

My unit consisted of eleven foot soldiers, weak grunts with no offence alternate modes, good only for marching into battle, weapon in hand. Megadeath and I had an aircraft alternate mode, but the nature of this ground-based invasion necessitated us to remain in robot form to lead our troops into battle.

With predictable bravado, Megadeath volunteered to take our unit in first, leading the assault, and took his place alongside Krok at the front. In all, nearly two thousand soldiers fell into formation on the Decepticons' side of the Chasm, queued up at the entrance to the damaged bridge. Krok stood surveying the obstacle for the final time. For all the assessments regarding its structural integrity, seeing it once more in its precarious state did nothing for the good of morale.

"What?" cried Slicer from behind us. "We aren't seriously going to cross that thing, are we?" he demanded. Slicer was probably one of our team's most courageous warriors. He was strong and committed, but even he was having difficulty in accepting the multiple assessments on the strength of the bridge.

As if to reply with an ironic whisper of its own, a gust of wind whistled through the creaking support struts of the bridge the Autobots had all-but destroyed in their botched sabotage. Megadeath reminded Slicer to remain silent, in his own authoritative way, before turning to face Krok. "Shall we?" he asked casually. After a moment's deliberation, he was ready.

"Let's go." He commanded. As one, our two thousand-strong group made the tentative steps onto the bridge. It was nerve wracking for most, less so for Megadeath and me, as we had already ventured out over the Chasm when making our preparations to the mission by modifying the supports to ensure the strength of the bridge was optimal for our goals. But even we, with our experience in flight, could not help but be captivated by the shear scale of the Chasm. It was a long way down, so deep that the floor was masked in a permanent shadow some five miles below us. One would not like to fall in.

Behind us came a cry of desperate panic as the pit claimed one such victim. A mis-step taken by an unwary soldier had seen the ground beneath his feet disintegrate, shattering like brittle glass. As if stepping out onto a pool of liquid, this damaged portion of the bridge did nothing to support the weight of the soldier and through the skin he plunged. I saw his arms flail wildly, trying to grab hold of something, perhaps anything that protruded from the bridge, but it was to no avail.

The whole invasion force had come to a halt as every set of optics watched the helpless soldier reduce to an immeasurable speck below, plummeting through the hazy gloom and out of sight. It was a sobering reminder that not everyone on this mission would be coming back alive and well, and that was before we even started the attack on the Autobots themselves.

"What are you waiting for?" boomed Megadeath as loudly as he dared so as not to alert the Autobots. "Keep moving!" he demanded. Krok, a little less confident in the situation himself nodded in unity and echoed Megadeath's call to press on.

With each and every step, a new sound would creak from the failed supports, each more uninviting than the last. The wind whistled around us, threatening to blow anyone it chose from our high-wired expedition. By the time three quarters of the soldiers had marched onto the bridge, under the additional weight, one could actually feel it bending. At the head of the group, we were now nearly half way across, coinciding with one of the bridge's weaker sections.

Our formation had dictated we march five abreast, but here it was necessary to filter down to a width of three soldiers maximum as we looked for skeletal girders to take the weight the aesthetics of the bridge could not. Krok remained alert to the potential threat ahead. For all the intelligence that the Autobots would not be prepared for this invasion, he had to be ready to react at a moment's notice. What Megadeath was feeling or thinking I was unaware as my attention was focused on the bridge itself, constantly running real-time stress analyses in my cranium, making new risk assessments for the local strength of each support beam ahead.

Despite my analysis telling me otherwise, the evil wind that tantalised us, threatening to push us from the precarious structure coupled with the worried murmurings of the troops behind almost lead me to believe the whole bridge was twisting. Footsteps became exaggerated. No one dared lift a foot until he had completely satisfied himself his previous step had maintained a secure grip on the surface. Gyroscopic sensors seemed to shut down as our formation began to part.

As if in sympathy, a small section of the bridge split a relatively minor support girder that falling into the Chasm, claiming two soldiers from our unit who were unfortunate enough to have been standing upon it at that moment. Panic began to spread through the troops. Some froze, some tired to push past. But all the disruption in our formation escalated the effects of the weakening bridge, not to mention increased the likelihood of our presence becoming known to the Autobots.

As another panel of the bridge shifted, almost sending another soldier off the edge, Krok halted and turned to face his troops. He said nothing, but raised his hands. That in itself seemed to be enough to quell the nerves momentarily, and the troops began to march more uniformly once more.

I chanced a glance over my shoulder. Most of the troops had filed onto the bridge by now, perhaps just a couple of hundred remained n the Decepticon side of the Chasm awaiting their turn. If something were to happen, then it would have to happen now.

It did.

Megadeath's foot went straight through the unsupported panel that appeared deceptively as though it held rigidly in place. My instinct was to stick out my hands to try to grab hold, but all that succeeded in doing was pulling me through his newly-formed hole. As one, we passed through the skin of the bridge and into the jaws of the hungry Verdana Chasm.

The first five seconds or so seemed to take place in slow motion as I felt myself free-fall, tumbling over and over in the buffeting winds. The rush of the oncoming gloom beckoned us on, but we had no intention of joining its other victims. After another few seconds, I was able to stabilise myself and managed to transform into my aircraft mode, an operation far from trivial given the conditions.

The Verdana Chasm, though looking dark and cold from the unaware is actually home to thousands of cross currents and thermals of differing directions, densities and vorticity. Though they all drifted more or less upwards from huge natural vents leading to the intense heat of the molten core beneath the crust of the planet, their turbulent nature made for difficult handling. Had I been a fighter jet, a seeker perhaps, overcoming the dark forces of this pit would have been almost trivial. But my aircraft mode was far from suitable to operate in these conditions as I was buffeted around, stalling and losing aeromechanical stability as fast as I got acquire it.

I had probably fallen over two miles in depth before I was finally able to catch enough laminate flow to allow me to begin a slow, gradual ascent. "So far, so good." Acknowledged Megadeath, appearing alongside me as we headed back over the Chasm towards the Decepticon side of the gorge. The Autobots' automatic anti-aircraft defences may or may not have been on line, but we took no chances and maintained our position avoiding their respective line of sight, and despite the odd moment of concern, we managed to maintain enough stability to fly to our selected destination.

We were able to make a controlled descent and land back on the firm terrain on the outskirts of Jenta once more. "That was a little close for comfort." I stammered finally regaining some composure. Megadeath transformed and smiled, claiming it was all part of the fun.

"Now we get to sit back and watch the show." He laughed, and walked over to the side of a small building that formed the gatehouse to the bridge, sitting down and placing his hands behind his head in a relaxed pose. From our positions on floor in the shadows of the building, we idly watched the last of the hundred or so of troops march or drive onto the bridge. It was time to wait. Ideally this have been over and done with in one fell swoop, but such was the nature of this savage attack it gave me more than enough time to sit this one through and think about what was going to happen.

Our commander, Krok, was still leading this charge himself. He had been cautiously optimistic that his mission would be a success and to capture an Autobot stronghold on the far side of the Chasm would indeed be a prized military coup. The Decepticons would have a stronghold in Ferex and perhaps once the Autobots' anti-aircraft weaponry had been disabled, we would have an ideal landing pad for collating troops for a push around the back of the Autobots' forces, to come in from behind and finish of Ultra Magnus and his attack on Taggon. The attack was so quiet and unexpected the results would be catastrophic for all that were unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire, from ranking officers to petty foot soldiers - no-one would be saved in this savage Decepticon assault.

And it was this indiscriminate killing that bothered me. I kept telling myself this was a means to an end, an end I had strived for so many years. Yet would this really signify the end? No, probably not. Just one more chapter in the unholy alliance I had forged with the psychotic megalomaniac that sat alongside me. A doer of such evil, he surpassed the very definition of Decepticon. Where would it end? Would we ever reach The End for which we had strived? I took limited comfort in the words 'cause' and 'effect' that bounced around my cranium and would have been content with this version of events until he arrived.

"Holy Primus!" he stammered, taking a step forward into my shadows. His head twisted in the gloom peering at my tired face. "Is that really you?" I left my thoughts alone for a moment and looked up the figure that had invaded my privacy. It was Grennis, the Decepticon scientist with whom I had forged a bond at Milatech. It was unfair to suggest we were friends, but despite this, if was equally unfair to say I wanted him here and I felt my head drop. "It is, isn't it?" he persisted.

I stared beyond him at the troops that continued to roll onto the rickety bridge and nodded. I felt him eying me up, acknowledging my physical alterations and modifications, commenting that he barely recognised me in this new, roughened militaristic form, a far cry from my R&D days in the white halls of Taggon. "Maybe I'm not supposed to be recognised." I suggested to myself. I sighed. "So, what are you doing here?" You one of Skydrive's goons?" I asked, almost answering my own question.

He nodded. "Primus." he whispered to himself once more, still barely able to comprehend my existence so far from my pacifist roots. "What on Cybertron are you doing here?"

I shrugged. "I felt you needed a second opinion." I explained with a nod towards the damaged bridge that creaked and groaned under the weight of the troops.

"Oh, I see." Grennis replied with an instinctive glance over his shoulder at the structure.

"No you don't." muttered Megadeath almost silently.

Grennis smiled uneasily. "So, er, what did you think?" he shrugged. I smiled. It was like Brainstorm all over again. Okay, so I never felt Grennis a friend as such, but he was an acquaintance I had not seen for years. The multitude of avenues we had explored since then had severed any compatibility we may have once enjoyed. The common-ground was gone, and all we had left to do was to 'talk shop'.

"Yeah, well," I began stretching my shoulders for a moment and nodding again, "I think you did a decent job."

Grennis smiled again. "It's funny, I heard that someone had done a secondary assessment of the bridge," he laughed, "but I really didn't make the connection. You really are the last mech I expected to see." he shook his head. "I even heard the name, but it just didn't click." he confessed, a finger tapping his head for a moment, before pausing again and frowning. "Hang on, 'decent job'?" he quoted. "I thought you said it was unsafe?" he asked with a short pause. "I mean, it was you that did the reappraisal, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." I nodded. It was evident by his speechless response he wanted more. "I told Krok my worst case scenario told me it was about 75% safe, but in all likelihood probably around 95%." I explained.

Grennis nodded. "Same here." he admitted, a little confused. "95% not good enough for you?" He joked.

"No." snapped Megadeath little over-zealously.

Grennis grimaced, a little taken aback and glancing a little suspiciously at Megadeath. "Well, I suppose you always were the perfectionist."

"This is a big operation." I continued. "We can't afford to take risks. Sometimes we need to offer a helping hand to be 100% sure."

Grennis' head danced from side to side in disagreement. "Hmm." He contemplated. "This is war, it's all about risks. Making calculated risks and going for it. I mean, 95% is a good risk in a war like ours. Someone offers me 95%, I take it."

"You have no idea of the importance." Megadeath muttered.

"Look, here." snapped Grennis, a little hurt by Megadeath's condescending tone. Grennis was a smart scientist. He could have come from anywhere - Stanix, Iacon, Grat even (before the accident). There was no need to treat him like an idiot. So to be patronised in this way did not go down well with him. "I'm a Decepticon scientist!" He reminded us. "I know-"

"You're a scientist." interrupted Megadeath. "You're not a soldier."

He frowned again and looked at me. "Neither are you."

TouchИ. I shook my head. "I told you I was joining the 'Cons on the Front Line all those years ago." I reminisced. "I think I've had my credentials proved. You couldn't possibly understand what's going to happen here tonight." I echoed.

"I know that a quarter of those soldiers crossing that bridge will be dead before the night is out." he predicted; for all the effect of our surprise attack, casualties were inevitable. "And I know you don't want to be a part of that that statistic." He sympathised, trying to coax the real reason from us.

I shook my head as I watched the last of the Decepticon soldiers start to cross the bridge. The convoy of troops began to pick up speed as the charge began. "No." I corrected him, "not a quarter." I explained. By now the immeasurably inadequate Autobot ground defences on the far side of the bridge began to kick into life, but futility of their actions against the regiment under Krok's command was clear for all. "All of them will be dead."

"All of them?" Grennis looked puzzled at my pessimism to an assault that I had apparently taken an active role in trying to ensure the success of. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

"If I told you that," answered Megadeath slowly, "I'd have to kill you." he finished coldly.

"Right." answered Grennis a little unsure what to make of his almost sarcastic crypticism. The attack, judging by the progress Krok and his troops had made already, was going to perfectly plan. Grennis wanted to know more. "Okay, aside from a couple of fallers," he started, referring to Megadeath and the rest that had slipped through the bridge, taking a glance at the front wave of soldiers that began to charge the final four hundred metres or so of the bridge, "I'm no strategist, but we have the element of surprise and -"

"No." interrupted Megadeath, taking to his feet. "We don't have element of surprise. We don't have anything" he corrected Grennis with emphasis on the first word. "Only I have the element of surprise." he smiled, pointing the thumb of his clenched fist to his chest for a moment before opening his hand to reveal a small remote control device. Grennis' eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the small object, in wonder of its significance. "It's time to give the bridge that helping hand I promised." explained Megadeath, almost to himself, "Watch this:" Pausing for effect for just a moment, he smiled and pressed the button on the controller.

Seven simultaneous explosions rocked the ground as the seven supports we had identified as specific weak points erupted in small but highly-energised balls of flame. The bridge had been precarious at best even before our bombs detonated, so its pending collapse came quickly without offering its victims time to react. Girders twisted and contorted under the strains of new stresses until the Chasm-spanning members failed completely. The disintegration of the supports on the Decepticon side of the bridge caused a cantilever effect of the bridge now maintained by the supports on the Autobot side of the Chasm only.

With an ear-splitting and mind-cringing splintering, the whole bridge began to fall into the Chasm as it hinged at a number of sections along the span from Ferex side of the enormous canyon separating the two regions. Such was the scale of the bridge, from distance, the collapse seemed to take place in slow motion, but on the scene itself, there were no illusions about the urgency and immediacy of their situation. The troops that had not been blown off the bridge into the void by the initial explosions succumbed to a state of petrified panic. Their sensors could scarcely comprehend the data they were receiving. The very ground beneath them was breaking up and there was nowhere to go. I could not imagine what the majority of them were thinking, for in the main, they were foot soldiers and ground vehicles; they had no ability to fly from the stricken bridge.

All they, and we, could do was watch as the first section completed its semi-supported hinge against the next section of the bridge. Like a trap-door, those above fell through the broken material dropping into the Chasm itself, five miles into the heart of the trench. Then as the stresses increased and the strength of the bridge decreased, like a chain-reaction, its complete collapse was swift and inevitable as section after section became engrossed in this trap-door hinging effect. In a little over thirty seconds, the bridge had completely hinged against the Ferex wall of the Chasm, its shattered members crashing heavily against the sides with such force that the minority of soldiers still clinging to its frame were either crushed or shaken off, destined to join their comrades in this plummet of death, as if falling into the pit of Chaos itself.

Grennis stood in awe, arms hanging limply by his sides. Even as Megadeath flung the remote detonator over the edge of the Chasm to join the remnants of the bridge, Grennis kept his focus on a huge chunk of debris, the main mid-section of the bridge that hurtled to the bottom of the Chasm. "'Don't think you should stand there." advised Megadeath casually foreseeing the impending balls of debris dust that would shoot up from the Chasm, but even he could not heed his own advice. He stepped forward towards the edge and peered over into the void. He smiled. "Look!" he pointed out, a finger extended from his outstretched arm, his other hand holding Grennis gently by the shoulder as the dust began to gather more readily.

He was pointing at a stricken Decepticon soldier, one of a small minority equipped with an aircraft mode. The soldier had transformed from his robot mode and, unlike all the other Decepticon aircraft that were on the bridge at the time of impact, had successfully negotiated the falling bridge debris and doomed foot soldiers on their respective descents. Like Megadeath and I, these aircraft were of an unsuitable design to negotiate this airspace, but unlike us, they had additional obstacles to overcome, namely the large chunks of girders and thousands of falling foot soldiers crashing heavily into them. But this lone aircraft had finally resisted his stall and retaken aeromechanical control from the clutches of the beckoning Chasm and started his ascent. "Foolish." observed Megadeath as the aircraft, so tiny against the contrasting Chasm wall on the far side. "Instinctive," he commended as he flew against the tide of falling rubble, "but ultimately futile." he observed as the newly positioned Autobot anti-aircraft defences finally came online and fired automatically at the rising aircraft, blowing it back from whence it came.

Still trembling in awe, Grennis stood shaking as the final foundations of bridge protruding from the wall of the Chasm became ever more closely engulfed in an opaque shroud of dust. "You did that." He stammered to himself. Slowly he managed to turn face Megadeath maniacal grin. "You really just did that?" Grennis spasmed. Megadeath shrugged.

"I just did what had to be done." he explained cryptically. "I told you, I couldn't afford to take any risks." That much was true. We could not afford any mistakes. That was why we had painstakingly installed the seven bridge modifications. They were, of course, bombs and not strengthening members, something we also chose to omit from our brief with Krok. That omission had cost him his life, and the lives of all his troops. They were beyond salvation now; it was going to take the Matrix or something equally potent to bring them back from their fate.

Grennis was still shaking. "So, I mean, you're like an agent? An Autobot double agent, or something?"

Megadeath looked insulted. "Do I look like an Autobot?"

"You look like a traitor!" dared Grennis.

"I'm not a traitor." he answered. "I am Megadeath!"

Grennis looked back briefly at the space where the bridge that supported a thousand troops once stood. "You are a traitor! And you are a psycho!"

"I am neither." I explained. "I was never really a Decepticon, but I'm certainly not an Autobot either. I thought you knew that as much as anyone?"

"You said you were going to bring peace to the world." answered Grennis, turning back to face me, recalling our parting comments years ago. "Is this your idea of peace? Or are you now going to kill a bunch of Autobots too now to address the balance?"

Megadeath shook his head slowly, a maniacal grin creeping up on his serious face. "No," he answered quietly, ignoring Grennis and his references to our conversation of yesteryear, "I said that if I told you anything," he continued bringing his more recent words back to the forefront of the conversation, "that I would have to kill you." The laser on Megadeath's right arm began to charge, and as the weight of his gravity and the realisation of the situation mounted on Grennis, through even the dark gloom I could see his face change. Megadeath was as serious as ever. Grennis found his eyes darting left and right, instinctively taking a step or two backwards into the dust clouds that had begun to choke the atmosphere. The light contrast forming from glow of the laser mounted on Megadeath's forearm and the shadows around us became gradually overwhelmed by the swirling dust from the debris that bellowed from the Chasm. "Sorry." he told Grennis, with almost genuine sentiment, for my relationship with Grennis was one of almost genuine friendship; Megadeath raised his arm to point at the Decepticon scientist.

Against the backdrop of the infernal screaming and the echoing clattering of rubble and bodies that crashed into the walls and bottom of the Chasm, no one could hear the triple-burst of laser-fire that penetrated Grennis' head. His limp body fell to the ground, backwards into the thickening balls of dust with a silent clang. Megadeath took a couple of steps forward, poking out a foot to tap at the corpse, satisfying himself that he was indeed dead. He nodded to himself and exerted a little more pressure from his leg, pushing Grennis across the ground to the edge of the Chasm with his foot. "You should have stayed in Taggon." I whispered to myself as Megadeath finished the job, kicking the body off the edge and into the deep crevasse in Cybertron's surface.

Megadeath stood with his hands on his hips for a moment and watched until the dust became so thick one could scarcely see a fist in front of one's face. In respect of the lack of visibility Megadeath brought his arm close to his optics and opened the hatch to amend his hit-count. He added a large number to signify the 'large number' of new kills he had made, choosing to update his 'score' to a round 2000. "There." he muttered in summary to himself, closing the hatch and readying himself to leave. But as if struck by something he had overlooked, he opened it up again and amending the value to read 2001, in respect of Grennis, he was finally content his work was done. For now this much was true, so I felt, but as ever, each time Megadeath found a new way to overstep the mark, intent on taking us one step closer to The End, I felt this was just the beginning.

--

CHAPTER 10 A Machine With A Difference

The complexity of my multi-part ambition threatened to defy me. With each and every completion of one such goal on the way to The End, the wave of optimism experienced soon petered out into its rightful perspective. We may have succeeded in eroding a small part of that which stood between ourselves and a personal victory, but every phase was more daunting than the previous one.

Not a moment passed by without feeling a level of regret, or remorse at the very least, for our timely massacre. Megadeath had reassured me this was just a means to an end, an end I had commissioned personally. But I took no satisfaction in seeing two thousand or so Decepticon soldiers fall to their deaths in the Verdana Chasm. But paradoxically, had there been an alternative path to take, I doubt I could have permit Megadeath to take it. He revelled in the knowledge of his accomplishments in this respect and besides, he was Megadeath as he perpetually reminded me.

So what now? What prospects were there for me, Megadeath or indeed, the state of Stanix as a whole? The occupying forces were gone. Most had marched to their deaths to join the Decepticons' fight for Taggon, a massive city of more strategic advantage than Syck or Devan. Taggon was an enclave of living propaganda that might do more for enrolment and Decepticon morale than possibly the whole state of Stanix. The need for conventional troops surpassed any desire for technological advancement these days. With the morale of troops on both sides so low, matching the feeling of resentment and apathy displayed by the Neutralist civilians, it was more important to put on a display of unity and strength in numbers than to design a new laser core for more efficient pistols, or a turbo-driven cooling fan for improved personal temperature regulation. This meant an emphasis on soldiers over scientists, at least in the short term, and that meant neglect for Stanix.

And those that had avoided Front Line duty in Taggon had already been herded up by Stanix-based officers, myself included, for the separate offensive in Ferex. With its failure, there were but a handful of troops scattered throughout Stanix; those that remained AWOL and that precious few that escaped our cull over the Chasm. But their importance could not be overstated for, deep down, they knew it was no accident.

But for now, the lack of interest shown by the Decepticon authorities in regards to Stanix and its future was clear. What could a small state like Stanix offer? Isolated from the rest of the planet by a deep Chasm protected by Autobot anti-aircraft weaponry, and connected only to their world via bridges already proven to be shot beyond good ground-based use, the only way in was truly through Taggon to the south where they had problems of their own. There were simply not enough conventional troops wandering within Stanix and its frontiers to warrant large militaristic attention. There was little left to protect or in which to invest. Its major cities had been destroyed; Yuss, Devan Scyk and Jenta, to name but a few, resembled Taggon, and as was established, Taggon was far more important. Salvation could come at a price the Decepticons could not afford and as such, Stanix was forgotten by Cybertron.

That said, within the boundaries of the region resided thousands of civilians and the odd spark-shattered Decepticon that had somehow missed the call to the south. From a non-militaristic point of view, Stanix maintained some of the same potential of yesteryear; one bot's junkyard is another bot's paradise. Though in total Stanix and its resources amounted to very little, were they to be divided between this minority of Decepticons within its borders, the well would appear bottomless. But with Krok, Linerunner, Pallwise, Trackdown and all the other ranking officers missing, presumed dead from the failed assault on Bana, and Snapdragon having departed to join Scorponok, who was there to lead this bedraggled society if the Decepticons themselves had given up any interest in this decaying state?

With the conclusion of an oppressive Decepticon regime in this region following the collapse of the bridge in Jenta, and the disinterest shown by the Decepticon high command in replacing the failed commanders, one might be forgiven for thinking this was my goal, or at the very least, a good point to draw to a conclusion of my own. With Megadeath, I had successfully rid this minor state of militaristic intervention. In essence, through a heavy-handed approach of my own I had brought a peace, or sorts, to this region.

But as I maintained, this was just the beginning. Though welcome on a local scale, this was not what I wanted overall, nor would it fit with Megadeath and his plans. So how to proceed from here was the big question. We could not possibly move from state to state to allow Megadeath to obliterate each and every soldier he could get his hands on, could I? That simply was unrealistic. No, in Stanix I had a region of great potential, and if there was something I felt I had to realise, it was this.

The official word from the Decepticon command on was thin, but in essence stipulated that there would be no commanders brought in from outside to take over and that the remaining Decepticon presence should sort out local leadership amongst themselves. It did not take long for Megadeath to meet up with Shackle again, the only other Decepticon in the region with any established rank, to discuss our inevitable assault on the governorship of the state.

Shackle was a law-bot, a robot of integrity. His methods of violence and fear may have been considered as unnecessary as they were uncouth, a typical reflection of the mercenary-like tactics that had attracted his support from the Decepticons, but ultimately he stood for authoritative control of the plebs, nothing more. Though gifted in the art of hunting and recruiting, as shown by our earlier partnership, he simply did not have the head or indeed motivation for command. Megadeath appointed himself as General material, offering a regime of simplistic ideologies that Shackle could uphold, a mutually agreeable scenario for two very different robots.

Not that Stanix was based on any democratic ideology, but Megadeath stood uncontested for the governorship. As soon as it became aware that Megadeath had not perished in the failed assault on Bana, made clear by Shackle and his network of data distribution, those that had made mutterings about applying for the position of General withdrew their candidacy almost immediately. No one was prepared to risk crossing this psychotic megalomaniac and before long Megadeath and I took up residency in Fort Scyk once more, the Decepticon command post in the region's Capital.

Megadeath sat in the head seat in the Decepticon command room, wrapping his fingers around the armrests of the chair, flexing his digits and caressing its power. For a moment he allowed a slight smile to creep across his face, an acknowledgement of our achievements thus far. Any trace of a smile was wiped from my face with my stern frown, an acknowledgement of our goals yet to be achieved. The command room was empty, so I allowed Megadeath a moment or two to indulge in his new-found position as General and self-appointed governor of Stanix. Somehow it was both relaxing and fraught with anxiety.

"Feels good." Commented Megadeath finally. "Doesn't it?" I sat at my chair trying not to embrace the buzz of power that Megadeath had long-since accepted. The danger would be that in his sobriety from his toxic narcotics, he might turn his cravings to power. Whatever ambition remained outstanding, for now we could not be permit to get ahead of ourselves. We still had a job to do, and first off it meant reopening the white halls of Stanix's forgotten research centres, or rather, one of them.

The thought of a thousand civilian scientists offered the chance to work in peace on projects not dictated to them by underhand militaries, but ideas spawned off their own backs and imaginations was at first a welcome one. The power to offer freedom to explore and refine our existing knowledge, to take and expand upon other ideas for the good of social development, for the good of a unified Transformers race, was hard to fathom. For too many years we had slaved away producing weaponry and augmentations for our military sponsors. For years we had had our minds warped by their quest for destruction and the overwhelming of their opposing forces.

So how could we ever return to the civilian way of research? Would anyone care if I designed and invented new technologies to help in domestic applications? Could anyone else desert their posts and join me in my dreams of yesterday?

The Decepticons could not afford the manpower or the additional resources to return the state to its glory days. Stanix could not accommodate tens of thousands of industrious scientists pulling for the good of society. On such a grand scale of the Decepticon military, there could be no justification to continue to operate Stanix in this way. It was simply too expensive given the rewards that may or may not be yielded. Yet, on a small scale, the existing resources could be just enough for I wanted. Perhaps I could tempt Brainstorm to drop what he was doing and to come to Stanix. He could even bring Chromedome and Highbrow with him, provided they both left their egotistic arrogance with the Autobots. I smiled to myself; that was never going to happen.

To the Decepticons, writing off Stanix was the cheaper alternative. It was easy and it was relatively inexpensive. But to me, it was as if I was sat here with a blank cheque. What made things difficult for me, almost impossible, was that I had to tear that cheque in two. I would like to think I could justify my approach based on the concept of blood-money. How could I use the (vast) remnants of Stanix's resources knowing they were built and paid for by the Decepticons, the very disciples of Evil, guilty of atrocities I had witnessed first-hand? But my hypocrisy was growing ever greater. This was not the reason I had to terminate my dreams before they even started.

"Yeah." I agreed to myself, an unhealthy mixture of irony, apathy, anxiety and uncertainty. The question was what to do next? I stood up and walked over to the window of the fortress that offered a view of all of Stanix. Though decimated beyond recognition in some areas, others remained more or less intact. Research centres, technical institutions and factories of potential all cursed me silently for my command that they remain idle. "Let's get hold of Shackle."

Through Shackle, we informed the residents and minor military presence in Stanix that it industrial resources would remain firmly offline. Stanix and all its remaining resources belonged to Megadeath. Those that might defy him and his order would be executed. We needed Stanix for ourselves and though it was true there was more than enough for us to complete our goals, we simply could not afford to grant others the use of the facilities. The risk of exposure was too great.

This was not the reason we gave, of course, choosing to inform Skydrive and the other remaining research workers that Stanix was in the process of decommissioning. We ordered their relocation out of Scyk and indeed of the state of Stanix itself. "Where shall we go?" he asked at our formal declaration of these intentions.

"I don't care." Megadeath had answered curtly with utmost sincerity. "Go anywhere. Study anything. Invent something. But just don't do it here." He explained. The large group of Decepticon scientists looked blank. Did Megadeath really have the authority to dispel the last of Stanix's research workers and to empty this once great state of its technology institutes? The glow from his arm-mounted lasers indicated that Megadeath felt so. "Now!" bellowed Megadeath, raising an arm and shooting into the air directly above the semi-civilian Decepticons. They were not used to being dealt with in this manner, but when Megadeath pointed a primed weapon towards Skydrive himself, the reality hit home. Whether or not he had this authority was immaterial to Megadeath. He wanted them out and by Primus, if that meant killing each and every one of them he would do so.

The stampede of terrified scientists turned into the rapid transformation into their respective vehicular forms and a dash southwards towards the relative 'sanctuary' of war-torn Taggon and the chance for amalgamation into other Decepticon regions. At least in Taggon the enemy was clearly defined by an Autobot insignia, unlike in Stanix where one could never be fully convinced that Megadeath might not attack his own brethren. For a while Megadeath shot randomly at their heels as they hurried out of the room, exaggerating his desire to see them leave. We stood in the window watching as the last of them left either taking to the skies or driving along the Sky Riser hyperway, and as the final scientist disappeared from view, Megadeath finally switched off his laser weapons.

With them gone, it was hard to see what was left of Stanix for Megadeath to govern. Perhaps a couple of hundreds troops were now stationed in Scyk, with perhaps another couple of hundred unaccounted for somewhere in the state. It was up to Shackle to locate them, but to be honest, I did not care. They did not figure in our plans for the moment, it simply kept Shackle busy and out of my way. There were also a number of cadets whose training had been cut short, but their readiness was of little concern to me. Again, Shackle was charged with their general oversight.

In practice, we were alone. We had rid ourselves of outside interference and distractions. Stanix and all its wondrous scientific resources now not only belonged to Megadeath but were available in his exclusivity, and through him, now belonged to me, readily available for my attention. Here in this isolated wilderness, a state so cut off from civilisation by a raging war to the south and an impassable canyon to the west, north and east, I was free. I was free to pick and choose, free from the shackles of Acumen, Skylab and the potential moral encapsulation by Shockwave and others, free to dedicate my time and energies to the civilian cause, a cause that had been neglected by audition militaries for thousands of years. Here I could pilfer the sufficient resources of a redundant, almost insignificant Decepticon empire that had collapsed with the loss of the overwhelming majority of its troops and associated interest. Here in Stanix, I had a world of learning at my fingertips, a scientist's dream, a life-long ambition, a mine of resources to occupy time and exercise my mind for forever and a day.

So one would be forgiven if this was what interested me right now. Those that may have assumed this was my goal were as mistaken as those that felt it was my quest to bring a peace of sorts to Stanix. I would like to think I was sorely tempted by this proposition of regenerating Stanix into a haven for peaceful and civilian research, that I might be able to use the Decepticons' resources for some good, that I might finally contribute to society in a positive way. But the truth was that I was disinterested. I was still far from achieving my aims, a vision to vindicate all my evils thus far, my association with Megadeath, the most loathsome and evil figure I ever had the misfortune of encountering. It had taken years to get this far, and there were many thousands of years to come before the sins of our sacrilegious union could be absolved.

So what was I going to do now? In what way would I exploit this well of opportunity that had been dug for me? If it were not for civilian gains, then how would I make best use of Stanix? I had but one subject to learn and one subject to teach. The pitiful thing was that my subject did not even know I was to be his master just yet. But in the meantime I had another project brewing.

We had been toying with concept of an additional alternate mode for Megadeath, perhaps a weapon or a land vehicle of some description. There had been a few experimental triplechanger designs in the past with varying degrees of success. But over time, the technology finally became accepted as more commonplace and perhaps it was a good place to get back into the groove. It would serve to remind me of my researching abilities as well as keep my surgical skills honed to perfection. It was the challenge, the non-lethal challenge, that I craved for longer than I cared to remember. "A tank." Offered Megadeath, assisting me in the preliminary design stage.

I sighed, the echo of indecision bouncing off the walls of the labyrinth of empty corridors and laboratories of our chosen technology centre. "Maybe," I replied noncommittally, carelessly running a finger along the length of a gleaming, unused bench, "but I wonder whether the primary objective would be to upgrade the rather crude aircraft mode." Neither Megadeath nor I were equipped for advanced flight, as our daring episode over the Verdana Chasm proved. To choose to plummet into the abyss in the way we had done so was potential suicide in hindsight. Neither of us expected such a hard time in regaining the aeromechanical lift needed for our flight back out of the trench. Had we appreciated that we were not nearly nimble or agile enough in our aircraft modes to negotiate the Chasm's unforgiving currents and turbulent thermals with any degree of confidence, we might have chosen another direction.

But our days of flying out of infernal pits in order to murder commanding officers and their troops were past us, so I hoped. Hindsight was a wonderful thing, and were we to embark on such an adventure again, I would not consider it without modifying my aircraft mode first. But having lived by our conviction and survived, perhaps it was best to leave that side alone for now and concentrate on the future rather than eradicating mistakes of the past that were fortunately of little consequence. Besides, it was in my nature to want to avoid working on offensive capabilities. Perhaps this was the real reason for my initial reluctance?

His voiceless stare convinced me as such and I conceded that perhaps the inclusion of his third mode would be fitting for a warrior of such repute and for bolstering his image as the military ruler of his state. He was right, of course. We had to stick to the program and make this machine before us different. We had been fortunate to be presented with the opportunity to drive out Krok and the others from under our feet. Had it not had it not been for this relatively simple strategy to fall into the Chasm, we might never have known about our aerial incapabilities. But for now it was of no consequence for we would not be re-engaging in such a stunt in the near future. The concept of supplementing Megadeath with his requested tank mode provided more than enough of a challenge for now and as such we agreed on our course of action.

It made for a fresh start, and a design challenge to push my engineering experience to the limit. It was a welcome respite from the terrible reality of the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons just a few hundred miles away. It occupied my mind from the thoughts of the killing and needless violence of the Front Line. For a while it allowed me to be the real Headwind again, the chance to rekindle the flames of my past life in a non-military environment. Admittedly I was reconstructing a powerful robot with the additional capabilities of a third, more aggressive battle form, but nevertheless, it was a mental exercise that did not require the deaths of enemies, comrades or former colleagues, at least not until he had the opportunity to try it out.

My first design appeared a little slapdash, like the novice to augmentation I was not. But despite our refinement we found ourselves presented with the perpetual problem far greater than the design itself, more its implementation. The surgery required to rebuild Megadeath would be made all the more complicated in the knowledge that only I could be trusted to operate upon him. It was going to be a long, slow, arduous and potentially painful operation, but one we felt was necessary.

So for the time being we were to slip into a reclusive obscurity as I battled with the pains of finding of solutions to our reconstruction difficulties. In truth, I relished the challenge and was grateful for this opportunity. We investigated various new technologies and even more older methods disregarded by others for their non-military applicability. It was a research adventure, reminding me what it was like to be normal again. But as I thought deeper about what I was doing, my involvement in the war and the living anomaly that was Megadeath, how could I ever be normal again? This was a sacrifice for the greater good.

Presently, the plans were finalised and a design agreed upon. Adding a third mode meant a rather radical facelift for Megadeath's aircraft and robot forms too in order to accommodate the tank components. But for all changes in appearance, crucially he would remain instantly recognisable as the psychotic soldier-turned-General of whom one should remain wary. His aircraft mode was to be heavier as the result of the thick, red armour plating that would adorn his tank form, which would also provide additional resilience in robot mode. But the loss in aircraft performance was considered a small price to pay for the freedom of accelerated ground movement with a more ferocious immediate-range appearance. Besides, aerial superiority was never his forte, a detriment we could afford to write off.

With Megadeath having shown recently his ability to channel his aggression into concentrated burst of violent extremes rather than his past narcotic-induced state of perpetual hot-headedness, Megadeath was ready and learn more. His anger was all-but gone in everyday life. Were he to be confronted with an unsavoury situation, perhaps to come face to face with Snapdragon again, or to be thrust into a nest of buzzing Autobots, his manic psychopathism would surely re-emerge. But here, away from the spotlight, he could return to the sanctuary of his deceptively unlikely peace of mind. It was as if Megadeath had developed into a two-faced beast of disproportion; to the world at large he was a menace not to be tested, but to me was quieter, more reserved and eager to develop further his powerful mental stature to enhance his physical prowess.

During the long operation, I was able to hand more responsibility over to Megadeath himself. At times I allowed Megadeath to operate upon himself, confident of his ability to resist his unpredictably venomous urges of chaos and destruction. I had already formulated the designs, so it was simply up to him to comply, which, of course, was in his (and my) own interests.

There were inevitable shortcomings in the design; certain difficulties had been overlooked, matters complicated by the occasional lack of foresight, but overall the operation went well and the results were more than satisfactory. Megadeath now sported a tank mode equipped with two short range concussion cannons. Indeed, the lasers that were mounted upon his forearms and his new concussion cannons were now interchangeable in robot mode. But as if in testimony to his reckless insubordination of old, he preferred to retain his lasers for 'everyday use', for they were less cumbersome, smaller and more manageable, leaving the 'big guns' for times as and when he needed to show he meant business. His thickened hide in robot form made him even more durable, and with the odd tinker here and there with his hydraulics, I had augmented him stronger than ever. The operation had also succeeded in introducing a large internal chest cavity, something we were to exploit at a later date.

Megadeath stared at his stronger, fuller, toughened figure in the reflective panels of the laboratory admiring my finalised handiwork. He was a functioning work of grotesque art. His armour plating gave him the appearance of a larger frame, more daunting than ever. With the flick of a mental switch, he switched his weapons from lasers to cannons and back once more, a wry smile accompanying the altogether satisfying whirring of the smooth motor-driven movement.

For the duration of the operation including its planning, evaluation and subsequent modifications, Megadeath had not left the laboratory. Now it was time to do the rounds. It was time to round up his empire and show off to the troops and civilians under his governorship his latest acquisition. Initially we chose to pay an unannounced visit to the barracks in Scyk where the handfuls of Stanix-based soldiers sat idly waiting for orders, or simply grateful for being spared from the Front Line in Taggon and beyond. We felt a balance was needed. We had to ensure that Megadeath found the time to keep himself away from the public eye for the time being for we had many more projects upon which to work, but also to remain available for impromptu appearances like this to remind his subordinates of both his existence and his ever-increasing personal power.

The troops were beginning to get restless so it was time to steady their nerves. No one seemed to understand the direction that Stanix was turning to face, least of all Shackle. We called the majority of the state's dwindling soldiers to the Fort and made our presence known once more. Megadeath rumbled into the training yard with an emphatic and explosive entrance, crashing through a decaying wall in his new tank mode. His tracks crushed the rubble that adorned this abandoned region of the derelict base, turning him on the spot to face his subordinates. They had not seen Megadeath this way before, indeed some had never even met him before, but they all knew it was him, an unmistakable arrogance about his entrance was proof enough.

He transformed to his robot mode and selected to sport his concussion cannons on his forearms for a change. The large, cumbersome weapons made for an even more menacing figure, coupled to the recent changes to his robot mode to accommodate his additional form had a noticeable effect upon their reactions. All eyes were on their commander as he walked around the grid of soldiers standing loosely to attention to the front of the group.

Megadeath took to the makeshift stage at the front of the barracks and the hundred or so Decepticon soldiers stood in an awkward silence. But this would be new to Megadeath. For all his bravado on the Front Line, his screaming and inane mutterings, his verbal onslaughts upon subordinates and superiors alike, Megadeath had never stood before more than a handful of troops with any kind of speech, especially one of this nature.

Megadeath was indeed nervous. This was not his forte. To the untrained observer, he was doing a good job of disguising his fear, but I had done this before. I knew what it was like to stand up there in the spotlight, the reluctant centre of attention. I could see the tell-tale signs. Could anyone else? Public speakers were a mystery, that much I had established, and such must have been felt by Megadeath for he was not such a speaker. What mattered worse was that as unpopular as he was, he was about to deliver a short speech that would reduce his popularity by half.

But we both knew this was not the reason for his presence. The talk was just gift wrap. It was what lay inside the box that mattered, and they had all seen Megadeath and his bolstered form, a powerful new evolution of the same menacing soldier with newly augmented abilities to deliver his tyrannical ambitions. This was simply a parade.

His words were practically over before he started. He said very little, barely conveying his orders to remain in Stanix as a security presence over the remaining civilians and to prevent an Autobot reinvasion via the negotiation of the Verdana Chasm. They were built for fighting and here he was ordering them stay put, weapon down. They wanted to fight, it was in their oil after all, but to their anger and bemusement they were ordered to train daily for the call to fight. "Your time will come." He explained to the uneasy troops. "It will come," he stressed again, "and when it does I need you in top condition. Cybertron needs you in top condition." He elaborated in a way familiar to the weary troops told relentlessly by their commanders the fate of the planet rested upon their shoulders.

Megadeath stood down and walked into a small room on the side of the barracks. We heard Shackle dismiss the troops and the humming of unrest vibrate from the main hall. The door opened and Shackle entered looking a little unnerved by Megadeath's talk. He had spent a long time rounding up the troops that had been scattered around Stanix and had been expecting Megadeath to reassign them to Taggon. The look on his face was enough to show his concerns. Megadeath wanted his troops to prepare for an encounter with an enemy, but refused to set a date. They had no-one to command them for Megadeath's interest lay far from his soldiers. How were they supposed to ready themselves?

"Don't follow orders, follow instincts." Megadeath smiled, a popular epigram that my data banks told me was in widespread use around the planet.

"My instincts tell me they wish you had fallen in to the Chasm with the rest of them." Shackle smirked, unconvinced by Megadeath's leadership. "My instincts tell me they hate you."

Megadeath nodded with a grin. "I understand." He looked thoughtful for a moment is if finally remembering the small group of Autobots to whom his borrowed quote belonged. "But they're the wrong instincts." He explained. "I'm talking about the ultimate instinct; the instinct of survival."

"You think you are doing them a favour?" asked Shackle. "Prolonging their survival by keeping them from the Front Line?"

Megadeath shook his head. "They are already on the Front Line; they just don't know it yet." He answered. There was a short rap on the door and Megadeath looked up to see the faces of two or three soldiers, clearly miffed at Megadeath and his soulless speech. "Ah," he remarked, "another deputation." He turned his face back to Shackle with a look that told him both to leave and that he should refrain from asking any more questions. Shackle shook his head to himself, an admission of defeat both to his commander and to himself that he might never understand the workings of his mind. He left the room and Megadeath allowed the trio of soldiers to replace him. "I take it this isn't a social call?" he asked.

The three stood in silence for a short while, trying to determine who was going to speak first. The tallest and strongest was a veteran soldier called Aftershock, a hard-headed trooper who had been fighting with the Decepticons as long as Megadeath and I had. He took a half-step forward and began to speak. "We want to fight." He explained. Aftershock was not known for his verbosity.

Megadeath allowed his face to feint surprise with an ironic look of bemusement. "Why?" he asked casually.

Aftershock looked first to his left, then to his right, from whom he received a small nod of encouragement from his fellow soldier. "We've waited here too long. We want to be a part of the action."

"You know as well as I do that the 'action' yields nothing but death and destruction." Megadeath pondered. "If life is a lottery, then the Front Line is rigged."

"But at least we had a purpose." Aftershock objected. "At least we made a difference."

Megadeath smiled to himself, the slightly patronising smile that told his audience he was wary of the innocent naivety of the last statement. "You want to make a difference?" he asked. Aftershock and his two companions nodded. "A difference to whom exactly?"

"To the war." Aftershock answered sharply.

"To the war?" queried Megadeath. "Or to yourself and your life?"

Aftershock paused for a moment and looked from side to side for inspiration. None was forthcoming from the two other soldiers in the room. "Both. Making a difference to the Decepticon war effort will bring about a difference to myself."

"Yes and no." Megadeath replied. "Or rather no and yes." He clarified. "You are right, on a personal level it will make a difference, and that difference will be that you will be dead √ a very permanent difference." He growled for effect. "But the difference you will make to the war effort is minimal. For every ten Autobots you kill, you can guarantee there are another hundred being trained to fight you. Your life is wasted on the Front Line every bit that the enemy's is. Why sacrifice yourself for a cause you have yet to experience? If you are going to die for a cause, you should at least experience that cause before you die; it just makes economic sense, ideologically-speaking."

"Why did you fight then?" asked Aftershock with a sneer. "If it is all so pointless?"

"Perhaps I had an altogether more different agenda?" answered Megadeath crudely. "Perhaps I simply had to wait for my number to come up then walk away?" He glanced subtly yet instinctively at the hatch concealing the personal display on his arm that he used to display his hit count. The trio remained motionless. After the relative difficulties in delivering his speech, Megadeath was in his element when it came to head-to-head discussions like this. Megadeath was never one for idle talk, but when he had something to say he would say it, and it would stick. "Regardless, it is my duty as your commander to share the wealth of my accrued experience. Here's a home-truth for you:

"You don't make a difference. You never have done and you never will. You are a nothing. A purposeless nobody. A pile of sentient nuts and bolts that no-one, least of all me, gives a slag about." Megadeath's bluntness surprised even me for a moment considering the company he was in, killers each to the core. "Look, it is not in my nature to order you all around. You are all experienced enough to know what needs to be done, who should do it and when it has to be done. All I say is this: take this time and spend it wisely. Don't wish for a life on the Front Line. It is a fabricated unreality, a labyrinth of propaganda, as well you know. You each have some experience of this. Stay here, enjoy life. Enjoy living.

"But if you cannot stand your so-called inactivity, if you are bored, then don't crave life on the Front Line. Do something new. Do something different. Smash something. Kill someone. Whatever it is you do, do it because it makes a personal difference to you. Fight someone. Fight anyone. But do so because you want to or because they threaten your way of life and the way of your wants. If the Autobots, or whoever, invade Stanix, then by all means, pick up your weapon and defend yourself. But I would advise against picking up that weapon and charging headlong into battle in Taggon or wherever because that's the way of the suicidal. Look after number one √ that's the Decepticon way.

"A victory of personal significance tastes sweeter than a thousand battles on the Front Line. The production line of ready-made 'enemies' on the Front Line cheats you of your victory. It is hollow. If you want to kill someone, it will only feel like an accomplishment if you know it made a difference, a real difference to you and your life." Megadeath paused for a moment. "And the only way you can feel a real difference is if you can put a face or a name to the enemy and vanquish him. See the spark in his eyes flicker and die. Watch them burned away with your pains in the knowledge you have defended your life and not been used like some disposable commodity by Megatron and the others. I'm not asking for your badge as a Decepticon; by all means live your life this way, but fight for yourselves, not for the Decepticons. It is time to support a regime with a difference, and if you think that means marching to your sorry deaths on the Front Line, you are sadly mistaken."

This much was true. Even if I was unable to endorse or condone Megadeath and his personal campaign of murder and violence, in this way I could at least accept it. After all was said and done, it did not matter that I could be held accountable for the two thousand soldiers that fell to their deaths into the Verdana Chasm. It did not matter that I did nothing to stop Megadeath butchering the six suspected double-agents in Devan, nor the multitude of kills to which Megadeath had been attributed on the Field beforehand. Similarly, it did not matter that I had strived for quite the reverse in my militaristic encounters, an effort to preserve as many lives as possible. It did not matter that I had sought to use my medical skills to save as many comrades as I could while neck-deep in dying soldiers. It did not matter that I had worked independently for Milatech to create prototype augmentation kits to help shut-down of malfunctioning micro-controlled systems for the good of individual soldiers, believing that if my scientific contribution saved just one life, then it was worth the hypocrisy of working for such immoral employers.

It did not matter, for in the grand scheme, our net contribution to this war thus far was effectively nothing. I could have allowed Megadeath to continue his tirade on the Front Line until he finally met his match, and I was in no doubt that this would have happened some day. Even if he had ten times as many kills to his name, the impact one such robot, or ten robots, or even a thousand could have on the war would be masked by the futile actions of the tens of millions of other soldiers all doing the same thing. Choosing who lives and who dies is not so much playing god, as playing minor minion. To play god requires the choice of the bigger picture, choosing whether everyone lives or everyone dies, not just a relative handful here or there. It pained me, as a pacifist, to think this way, but it was something I had to believe in, or else I could never have joined up with Megadeath. The only way to make a difference, a real difference, was to end the war, period. And who in this room had such a capability?

Perhaps this was what made Megadeath the effective soldier he was. He knew his actions in this manner could never swing the balance of power in any significant direction. He was as disposable as any of the other life-sapped brutes he fought alongside, and those that stood before him today. But in accepting he was on the Front Line for no reason other than because he wanted to be there, he had accepted he might die at any moment. If he was not comfortable with that notion, then he would not have been there, and neither would I. Megadeath was working his personal agenda and was not out for the good of the Decepticon Army. It was a bold and bravado-driven strategy and to heck with the consequences. This way he did not have to decide whether his actions might jeopardise his comrades, or even himself. He simply did not care. He just did what he did for reasons known only to him, and it was from this primal level that he could operate quicker with more instinctive decisions.

It was not that he was suicidal, merely realistic about the contribution he could offer as an individual. Even now he was finally in a position of some authority, yet he still did not have the ability to make that real difference. If his army in Stanix represented a real fighting force of any significance, he would have been given the call to reinforce the effort in Taggon by now, but it was simply not the case. The truth was that we were all leftover individuals, bound by a common union of redundancy.

Their redundancy in this manner went some way to highlight the misplaced ideology of warfare and the futility of fighting an unconquerable enemy. If their comrades and opponents could continue to fight in their absence without any quantifiable repercussions, what conceivable point could there be for their inclusion in the fight? But fighting was their lives. They had been redeveloped and trained, and in some cases, built specifically for warfare. It was their jobs, their lives, their very existence. Was Megadeath saying their lives were as futile as the war? Were they as pointless as any other disposable commodity? It was of no surprise that morale amongst the troops somehow found new ways to sink below rock bottom.

"You cannot make a difference." He continued. "You cannot help the cause. You are nothing." He reiterated. He paused. "Is that how you want to live? As nothings?" The small room fell ever quieter as if in a quest to redefine silence itself. Megadeath's confession for his disdain for the primitive barbarity on the Front Line had come as a shock. He was a seasoned soldier with more kills to his name than pretty much everyone they knew combined. Quite what the alternative to this 'primitive' fighting was remained unclear, but Megadeath was rarely without a plan. And while his troops were somewhat unconvinced and could not yet grasp how he intended to take the war forward against the tidal massacring of soldiers, it was clear to them that time would tell.

"Don't be a nothing. Just be something." He advised finally after a short pause. "Somewhere between the shouting and shooting all this," he gesticulated with his hands signifying perhaps beyond the borders of Stanix and the planet as a whole, "it all got lost. Perhaps you can't even remember what you are fighting for?" he speculated. "Not me. I never forgot. And I intend to changed all this, believe me." He reiterated his call for calm and patience. "And in the meantime all you need to do is change too."

--

CHAPTER 11 General Infancy

News of Megadeath's unorthodox style of governorship spread throughout Stanix; Shackle saw to that. We did not even have to tell him to do so, it was simply instinctive. His lack of personal faith in, or rather understanding of, Megadeath's wants and plans was amplified through his propaganda. And his doubts and fears were transcribed into the thoughts and minds of those under our governorship. They were to remain in Stanix, train and prepare. Their preparation, however, remained a mystery and as far as they could gather, involved their instincts. Their instincts were to fight, so they thought, but Megadeath knew them more than they did themselves; Megadeath knew their instincts were to survive, and in a lower priority thread, simply to live.

But without the direction of their reclusive leader who sat with me in our laboratories learning, living and making but a few appearances in order to reconfirm the status quo, our unit of troops remained uneasy and on a knife-edge. Their training was unstructured, their leave unregulated, their very lives unsupervised for the first time. The more the whispers grew, calling for leadership, the more Megadeath kept himself hidden from the outside world. The rabble under his command may not have realised it, but they were complying with Megadeath's every whim.

And for all their disrespect for the laws of reason and social justice, I could allow myself the perverse pleasure in seeing our empire in all its deregulated glory. They were not perfect. They were Decepticons, after all. But they acted as if they were no longer at war. They acted like life was one long vacation. Sure, they fought, bickered and brawled, sometimes their enthusiasm for their unleashed lives manifested itself with ugly violence or even killing, but it was all for a reason. They could finally recall what their lives were like prior to the war and were starting to mimic them with a passion. Condoning the actions of vice-spawned feuds was hardly in the nature of a true pacifist, but I had acknowledged this was in the nature of a realist. We could not possibly bring peace, not a true peace, to this world overnight (not yet anyway), so anything that offered any resemblance of pre-war normality was something for which to be grateful, even if was through the way of the fist.

At least now the soldiers were not expected to kill for the sake of an insignia and a model of beliefs so similar to one's own that one could scarcely recall the true reason for the war, and that was a victory in itself. Instead or war, the rule of law was dictated by the fittest, the strongest. Life on the streets was dangerous, anarchic almost. Life returned to its demilitarised roots; life was instinctive. It may not have been peace as I craved, but it was about as realistic as anyone could dare to hope for right now.

Megadeath explained to his restless soldiers once more that they were free to remain under his control in Stanix, but offered them the opportunity to fight for the Decepticon cause in Taggon. By now, having sampled the anarchies of both pre-, mid- and post-war, for all their independence and freedom to leave they elected to remain in Stanix. Megadeath was right, in their eyes. There was no need for their short-lived appearance in Taggon. They were finally living once more. Whatever the reasons or standard, whatever the excuse, Megadeath and I could see their attitudes change. Of course they were reluctant initially; they were soldiers, not used to the life we were offering. But over time they were starting to see the benefits.

There were voices of concern too though, voices that questioned Megadeath's 'methods' of training, in that there were none. How could they train without anyone to train them? Would they not weaken? Strength takes many guises, and despite the need to physical maintenance, it is in the mind that one finds true power, that was my belief anyway, and one to which Megadeath was a common subscriber. When the time for action was to come, their strength in mental motivation was as important as their physical resolve. And their mental preparation came through learning for themselves the valour of leadership and a chain of command, and the prize of a society dictated by popular rules and direction. For the first time in their lives they were treated like sentient beings, free to pick and choose their opinions, not shackled to the ideology of megalomaniacs.

The news of this backward Utopia having reached the corners of Stanix now began to threaten the borders themselves and into the surrounding terrain. Decepticons drifted into Stanix, lost, or perhaps disillusioned, but certainly intrigued by Megadeath and his mythical land of no holds bar living, where Decepticons were free to live like real Decepticons, to have and to hurt, to exert their powers over lesser mortals. Attracted by this, the lesser of two evils, slowly they emerged from the wilderness, AWOL from their duties on the various Fronts of the war.

From the south, just as the Decepticons had started to turn the tide in the monumental struggle for the giant city Taggon, their forces found themselves weakening by the exodus of key soldiers exhausted by their never-ending quest for victory over the Autobots. A victory whose costs could be counted by the deaths of soldiers could never be balanced by the benefits measured in land so battered beyond recognition and use. The relative haven of a warless Stanix, though itself battered beyond recognition, contrasted the perils of Taggon and was seen as a real alternative, and while some found this contrast cowardly to accept, others were far from reluctant to see it that way.

Then from the south-east, came more soldiers, lost or stranded in minefields, perhaps Walking from the clutches of death, injured without hope of survival in their present environment. They stumbled into Stanix, finally aware they had arrived in this, the heartland of which Shackle's propaganda and the powerful word of mouth spoke. Perhaps the biggest surprise was not that these robots dared to chance a life outside their daily fighting on the Front Line, but who they represented.

The Decepticons were on the adjacent Front, and as the reputation of a limbo between anarchy and martial law attracted those that felt they could make a name for themselves, it was almost expected they would arrive. But now those that bore the red insignia dared to venture from their respective camps. Perhaps lost too, rounding the edge of the Chasm where the too frontiers met, or having slipped through the net of no-man's-land, perhaps craving that level of normality Megadeath and I had created, their dreams for life, be it under the guise of Decepticon apathy for war, were nurtured; anything for a fleeting reminder of life yesteryear.

With the sense of uselessness, redundancy and failure to their respective factions so abundant within our community of morale-sapped veterans happy to see out their remaining days away from the perpetual shelling, killing and mindless slaughter of the Front Line, those that were once enemies shared a common respect. The Autobots that drifted into Stanix were not there to enjoy the lives the Decepticons had made for themselves, the torment and abuse of their power of the residing Neutralists, but simply to embrace the warmth of normality, a fragile peace of sorts. It was not the peace they preached, nor as I had already conceded, the peace I craved, but for now, this almost brutal regime synonymous of a pre-war Decepticon enclave was a welcome alternative to the futility their lives had endured to date on the Front Line. And if this notion of 'peace' was good enough for me, it was good enough for anyone, Autobots included.

The more they came, the more they found their instincts to fight replaced by their instincts to survive, to live some meagre existence that ranked higher than that of life on the Front Line, if only by some small margin.

One might wonder why an army of such disillusioned misfits, no longer prepared to fight against an enemy they could not believe in, could be of any value. But it was what was in their instincts to fight for, that interested Megadeath. Give them a reason, a real reason, a chance to make the real difference they craved, then their fighting instincts would return, coupled to a new vigour for life, making them a stronger unit than any other on Cybertron, a new army, Megadeath's army. So what could inspire them to fight for something? And what could I possibly want them to fight for? After all, I had finally helped get them off the Front Line, why would a pacifist like me want to send them back there? The truth was I did not want to see them pick up another weapon in anger ever again.

It was perhaps five thousand years since Megadeath had taken over Stanix as a young and inexperienced General without the support, respect or even attention of outside superiors. The drift of Autobots and Decepticons alike into our province had been slow but steady and accumulated over the years had formed a presence of soldiers increased from its initial stronghold of around two or three hundred, into a force of nearer two or three thousand. It was hardly the force required to retake Cybertron, it was a figure comparable to the number of kills to which Megadeath alone was attributed, but it was a start, and with the escalation of violence around the world growing at a rate similar to the disillusionment of its perpetrators, there would always be that welcome boost to our ranks.

During these years Megadeath and I had kept ourselves busy in the laboratories of Stanix continuing to abuse what remained of this once-great technological playground for our own devices. Our years of free research had yielded a number of methods to improve our adept skills as regarded by anyone who cared to observe. We had undertaken two or three reconstructive surgeries to help reform Megadeath and refine his rather cumbersome alternate modes and now both his tank and aircraft modes were stronger, more manoeuvrable, more efficient, more terrifying and just generally better. Spines were now sported about his tank mode to aid stability and guidance, doubling up as defensive and protective body spikes in robot mode, protruding from his fists, back and even top of his head. His thick red armour had been replaced with alloys and composites that were lighter and thinner, yet stronger and more durable. In addition to these more obvious changes, the almost mandatory multitude of hydraulic augmentations left him physically stronger than ever before went without saying.

It was important to keep up with this side of our work, to remind everyone who had chosen Stanix that their leader, though out of sight, was still there, and that he was ever stronger and ever menacing. His message, to do what they wanted provided it did not cross with Megadeath's own agenda (unknown as that was), then all would be well in the Stanix camp; defy him and die a terrible death at the hands of a sadistic killer whose hands and weapons had remained too cold for too long. He would revive himself from time to time with the mindless slaughter of a subordinate or a Neutralist, just to serve as a reminder or to demonstrate his new powers and increased strength.

As useful as it was to keep up his appearance, so to speak, there was another side to our research that began to take up more and more of our time. Rather than tinkering and experimenting, my work became more focused on the research again. Before we could embark on that which really interested us, came the mundane task of sitting and sifting through endless vaults of data, reading, memorising and learning the background work to our forthcoming project.

We started by digging out my old files logged so many years ago in Taggon prior to the start of the war and its invasion. Recollection of my 'medikit' project, so-called by Grennis and the like, and my many verbal interactions with the staff at Milatech over the years was going to be fundamental. I smiled at the unlikelihood of the situation where something as trivial and meaningless to the overall picture as a small, internal system that hunts down and immobilises damaged and unhealthy chips in one's body could possibly play such a key role in the future of Megadeath, Stanix and one day, the whole of the planet Cybertron.

It took time, of course, a lot longer than most scientists of old that had researched this subject. They had the advantage of team-working, whereas I had but Megadeath at my disposal, which was hardly comparable to a hundred of the greatest minds on the planet working in unison. And furthermore, though with some experience in this field, it had always been something I had considered a taboo, strictly off-limits, something I had avoided, never even entertaining the thought I might one day indulge in its powers. All this had to be revised and relearned first.

But memories of the talk of diaclonic accelerators and spatial ionisers in the old laboratory slowly resurfaced played their respective parts. We searched for and downloaded illegal information and references regarding these forbidden devices and began our unholy mission. For years we trudged through the data and began to understand that which my colleagues of yesteryear had once known but never dared to practise, until finally we cracked the 'code'; the secrets of the deadly neutron bomb were ours.

Megadeath and I stared at the screen, the results of our botched and fused programming, planning and sketching, our number-crunched estimations and crude schematics were finally falling into place. Grennis was correct; finding and absorbing the requirements for constructing a neutron bomb though near impossible for the average robot on the planet. But for a logical mind such as my own capable of thinking on such a broad scale, all it took was the skill, determination, time and resources available readily to me to understand this outlawed technology.

We had digested the theory and thought carefully about its practical implementation. Set before us was research and thus satisfied my urges; set before us was the potential for death and destruction and thus satisfied Megadeath for now at least. He could not yet understand the plans as well as I did, but I could see from his smile he was impressed that such a well-known pacifist could have the guile to disregard his own conviction and learn such a trade. "It is time." He smiled once more.

I nodded, mindlessly clicking a couple of buttons and instructing the computer to flick between various design stages. My principles that helped me design nano-scale neutron bomb-type electromagnetic pulses had been pushed beyond their limit in designing this hideous monstrosity. The weapon I had designed could deplete a small city of all its life, after all, not to mention the radioactive fallout. This weapon could kill thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, millions even. More, perhaps, if we could improve its efficiency, perhaps to boost its chain-reactive powers that it might hit the fabled super-critical status and propagate over an area ten times its intended size, as happening in the great Accident. Could there be a more powerful weapon? Time would tell.

But for now, this was without doubt, the worst weapon in the world, and I had just designed it. And I had designed it for Megadeath, the worst robot in the world. In my drive for peace, I had designed a weapon so deadly, not even the militaries that warred currently dared touch. Was there a rival for my hypocrisy? Could it ever be surpassed? I was sure to find a way.

It was over a hundred years since our last public appearance, a hundred years since we wowed the newcomers and old hats alike with a display of Megadeath's most recent augmentations, killing a few Neutralists for the sheer heck of it. It was often jested one could set one's internal chronometer by the regularity of Megadeath's revelations. Each time he would blitz the sky or roll across the shattered ground in order to show off his latest acquisitions, developed on the side to our research into the neutron bomb, to act simply as a visible measure of Megadeath's increase in personal strength.

He burst through the walls of a recently re-erected marketplace where Autobot and Decepticon refugees traded with local Neutralists. It was the scene of Megadeath's most recent appearance, the devastating demonstration last of the previous century's work, namely the increasing in power of his concussion cannons, cannons that he used to decimate the area, murdering whoever dared to protest or stand in his way. The foolish robots that perished were mainly those that had wandered nomadically into Stanix, having never met the mythical tyrant, perhaps in ignorance of his elaborate, yet justified reputation.

Perhaps the inhabitants of this small region of Scyk had been expecting more of the same. For over one hundred years they had escaped the carnage of Megadeath's uncontrollable urges for violence, the mere fact he was a year or two late could be seen as a bonus. Life under Megadeath was a cycle. There would be the calm before his storm, whereupon if you could chance to survive, then the next hundred years were spent rebuilding and continuing the day to day life that was being a citizen of Stanix. Whether that was simply living in fear one day at a time like most of the state's natives, or basking in the knowledge one's life was not about to be taken from you in some meaningless conflict on the Front Line like the immigrant Autobots and Decepticons, all one had to do was survive this day and the next hundred years were one's own. Life under Megadeath was a regimental cycle.

Yet this time was different. In addition to the fact he choose to show himself somewhat late compared to his usual hundred-year stints behind closed doors, the most noticeable difference was that he was not different. The fact Megadeath had no obvious modifications to his tank mode that crippled the square with a thunderous roar was not enough to assume he was not in some way superior to his previous form. In his form unmodified since our last appearance he repeated the scenes of havoc, butchering those that 'dared to violate' his territory, as he put it, screaming obscenities and his name alike, he performed his timely massacre before transforming and raising his hands in victory, allowing the rays of their fear to warm his skin.

Cowering, the bystanders waited for Megadeath and his trademark catch to make itself known. Surely there must he something different, something new? There was always something? But there was no disguising the fact we had, for the first time, devoted our whole efforts to the project, not a moment had been spared. There were no improved concussion cannons, no more toughened armoured spines, no additional transformation modes. There was simply nothing new, not even the almost-routine overhaul of his hydraulics for improved speed and strength.

So why was he not any different? What was he saying? Was he getting old, past it, or senile even? Or had we exhausted our minds of ways to bolster this evil figure any further? Was it he simply was augmented to physical perfection? Was he that was considered the ultimate killing-machine now genuinely just that, the ultimate killing-machine? Or was it that his efforts were focused elsewhere? What else could this monstrosity have waiting behind the closed doors of his laboratories?

Megadeath simply smiled at his minions, choosing not to answer the questions they dared not ask, reminding them their obligations did not stretch to serving him, simply to live (in fear) in Stanix and that they were free to leave at any time. He did not need to remind them their 'freedom to leave' meant returning to their respective roles on the battlefields of Cybertron and the certain death associated with it. The lack of answers by either Megadeath or by me on his behalf made the whole effect as terrifying as his ritualistic killing appearances of old. They could not leave. Their instinct kept them here and their instinct kept them guessing, but more importantly their instinct kept them alive.

--

CHAPTER 12 A Wave Of Optimism

The next thousand years or so were spent running a new groove into the routine that was the life of Stanix. No longer did Megadeath appear with a new augmentation as a matter of course every hundred years or so. In fact, the one occasion he did (the modification of some armoured spines and fins to improve his efficiency and handling in his aircraft mode) was now considered a break from the norm.

It was clear our time and effort was focused elsewhere; sitting around doing nothing was simply not his style, nor was it mine. We were busy creatures that indulged in the absorption of intellect and power and our efforts had been focused in designing, and redesigning our neutron bomb, the most sinister nightmare for all of all Primus' creations.

We had constructed a number of prototypes, all in the name of research and evaluation. But each was built for appraisal, never for detonation. I was a pacifist, after all, and I could not detonate a real neutron bomb. Well, at least that is what I would like to have thought. The truth was I could not allow some psychotic megalomaniac to get hold of them until it was perfect. And this was not because I was some sort of vile perfectionist (although this was true of me also), but because we would not have much time or many opportunities for an acceptable live test. Simply put, it had to be perfect.

So with the turn of a thousand years or so since the redirection of our research into this field, we were finally satisfied we had come to a suitable conclusion. The truth was we were far from finished, but this phase of the plan was complete; we would need to put our work on hold while we developed another project in order to progress further, but that was for later.

Megadeath flew into Scyk and called for the strength of a number of volunteers. The silence spoke volumes for their distrust of their wayward leader. But the lack of enthusiasm threatened to anger him, and an angry Megadeath was not a good thing, especially an angry Megadeath that had a tendency to unleash his vengeance upon any unwitting subjects, having not done so for nearly a century. Volunteering actively for Megadeath was usually considered unwise, but the enduring of his wrath instead could be argued as ignorant. Gingerly we were met by the nervous optics of a Decepticon with a raised hand and like a dirty tide, his peers stepped back in waves to reveal his trembling face.

Megadeath smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, but it was obvious to all he wanted more. Perhaps it was his icy stare, or the faint glow and vibrating rumble from his concussion cannons he sported today, but one by one additional Transformers stepped up. There were around six or seven, a mixture of former Autobots and Decepticons, possibly even a Neutralist or two, and they stood in line as the tyrant walked around their rigid forms. Satisfied with his subordinates' cooperation, he turned his attention to the crowd with a disapproving and patronising shake of the head accompanying his audible 'tut'.

He fired a few random shots into the crowd to convey his displeasure at their cowardliness, and as a couple of robots fell clutching their smouldering wounds, the rest all turned to flee, lest they might become this century's token victims. When just the volunteers (and the recently dead) remained, Megadeath ordered their transformation. Most were aircraft, although a former Autobot had a ground vehicle mode. Megadeath shook his head at his unsuitability and told him to leave. He did not need to be told twice and revved off with squealing tyres. Of the remaining aircraft, Megadeath selected four to accompany him and the others told to leave too.

The four of them were issued with a small unit for them to attach securely to themselves. We did not explain what they were for, nor did they ask; they knew better than to ask. They flew with us back to the inner levels of the Fort, maintaining their silence, a clear indication of their overwhelming sense of knowledgelessness. It was but a short trip, but long enough for their processors to be filled with the thoughts relating to this mysterious mission. Megadeath ordered them to remain circling the Fort while we landed on his personal airstrip. I was unhappy with what we were about to do; this was to be one of those monumental steps that could never be reversed. It was many things, dangerous, immoral, unrepeatable, but above all essential. But that did not mean I had to be comfortable with the situation, not as comfortable as Megadeath who felt this would serve to bolster his reputation further.

"Where are we going?" asked one of the jets above after we had emerged from inside our quarters. We had taken our prize and attached it to Megadeath's aircraft underside using a mounting we had created specifically for this role some time ago, and the large missile-type object could be hidden from view no longer. Megadeath chose not to answer, but to take to the skies once more. He was not interested in idle chatter with his subordinates and neither was I. I did not even know their names, nor did I care; the less I thought of them as sentient beings the better.

We flew south for some distance in a chevron formation drawing attention from the odd robot on ground level that looked up to see their missile-shod leader escorted by his volunteers. We had left the limits of Scyk and were flying over old, dead territory that was littered with automated drone weaponry from thousands upon thousands of years ago. Aside from these minor robots on ground level, the area was deserted; the perfect place for a test.

Megadeath spat monosyllabic orders to his soldiers, telling them one by one to fly low and land at specific points. They were to transform and await instructions. One by one they obliged until we were flying alone. We checked in with our bemused troops that confirmed they were in position, but quite what they were in position for they could not have known nor predicted. This was it; no going back. Whether this would be seen as a declaration of intent, or a statement of ability we had yet to establish, but the value of the attention we would receive and the data we could amass, and could be seen to amass, was incalculable. All we would need to do was wait.

With a final check of the systems we were ready. Megadeath launched the missile and we banked sharply to fly from the area. Within a few minutes or so we had left the target zone and with precise and pre-calculated timing, the missile stuck the epicentre to the millimetre.

The explosion was silent, but our retro-monitors recorded the impact as the first full-scale neutron bomb to be detonated on the planet in the tens of thousands of years since the Accident erupted majestically. We had predicted a range somewhere between one and two hundred miles that would be affected by the electromagnetic pulse that emanated from our outlawed device, hence our testing it in the middle of the wastelands of Stanix. We had retreated some distance beyond that range, however, because we knew all too well the lessons learned from the Accident. If the chain reaction of electromagnetic pulses hit super-critical status, that hundred miles could easily hit a thousand, or ten thousand miles, or (theoretically) extend to cover the planet itself. And while Megadeath knew as well as I did that each of these scenarios were progressively less likely than the previous to the point of impossibility, it paid to be prepared.

The four jets, however, were less prepared. They had no idea what they had volunteered for and stood oblivious to the wall of death that shot up on them with hushed malice. The only warning of the impending danger came from watching the odd weapon of yesteryear fail. Some of these old turrets that had been buried under debris for the past hundred thousand years or so were still active having never been removed since their operations long ago. When the silent wave of energy passed them by, their outdated and unshielded circuitry became erased of meaning as the electromagnetic interference rendered themselves inoperable, and those that were locked in position fell limp, keeling over with a crash, perhaps landing on a land-mine or two.

These were few and far between, but could have been enough to alert our four soldiers of the impending danger, but the wave propagated so fast they were scant warning and, one by one, our foolish volunteers took the brunt of the wave, their internal systems subjected to the same fate that had been bestowed upon the primitive weapons under the rubble.

Even from our vantage point some way away we could feel the after-effects of the wave that had finally all-but dissipated, our gyro-sensors momentarily shaken up with their electronics unable to compete with the magnetic interference. But here, at this relatively safe distance, such damage was far from permanent and we were soon able to retake control of ourselves. This was more than could be said of our volunteers.

We headed back into the target area once more, flying low. There was little point in radioing to our subjects, for being in the blast zone, their radio systems would have been damaged beyond repair. From above, we scoured the landscape until the first robot was spotted. He had been positioned furthest from the point of impact, and thus would have been affected the least. We flew down low and transformed.

He was in shock. The force of the wave, though limited at this range had damaged a number of minor systems, mostly those that were nearer the surface. It was clear from his face his optic sensors had failed, as well as damage to his audio sensors and probably radar sensor too given the surprise he showed when we landed close by.

"What happened?" he stammered. Clearly his body provided sufficient shielding for some of internal systems such as his vocal circuitry. Wordlessly we removed the data-logging device we had issued them with from their person and stowed it away for later. We said nothing of the event itself, but Megadeath then ordered him to transform and return to Scyk for a medical test and repairs. "I can't transform." he explained, exposing an interesting observation that his voice electronics were less susceptible than his transformation systems, something we had not predicted. Blind and without radar he was never going to make it out of this land-mine filled wasteland alive so he was told to stay put for now. I gave him a quick check over and satisfied myself of his condition before Megadeath and I took to the skies once more.

We flew to the second volunteer. At his range, he had borne more of the wave's destruction. He was alive, barely, but his ailments included those of the first soldier as well as more permanent damage to his CPU. He could not see, hear, speak or acknowledge our presence at all. His damaged electronics were manifested in nervous-looking twitches to a number of electrically-controlled hydraulic joints. His cooling system had failed and I could feel the warmth from his body had increased as he struggled to cling to life.

I wanted to put him out of his misery; it reminded me of the injured civilian in Valun Megadeath had shot for me on the training mission so many years ago, but this guy was probably a thousand times worse. But Megadeath would not allow me to. He had to be left here, Primus only knows why, but possibly as a warning, or a signal to others. Megadeath had his own reasons and I could not interfere. We acknowledged his condition, recovered his data-logger and flew to the remaining targets.

Both the third and fourth volunteers were dead. They had been much closer to the centre of the blast and whatever shielding their bodies may have used to resist the electromagnetic pulse was clearly insufficient. Unlike the previous soldier, they had died instantly and thus were not overheating. Both bodies lay intact and dormant, almost peacefully amidst the ruins of this former battleground, alongside the automated turrets that were erased of functionality too. After I had recorded my preliminary observations, Megadeath amended his hit-count with another couple of deaths and we transformed one more time to fly back to Scyk.

The cool breeze in the evening sky accompanied the chorus of mutterings below as we touched down in our region's capital once more and our presence without the four volunteers was enough to unnerve, if not surprise. But we said nothing and marched into our private quarters, calling up Shackle over the intercom. I explained there were two casualties lying in the wastelands that we would like returned for examination. "I'd appreciate it if you can get a rescue team out there." I requested politely, relaying the coordinates of the two living volunteers. We had enough data from the test already, but further inspections on live specimens might be useful. "As far as I'm concerned, it's not urgent," I explained, "but they will probably die unless they get some help soon."

Shackle nodded and told me he would right onto it. But then he paused, as if unsure whether to ask the question. His internal argument came to a compromise with a statement. "There was a tremor." He began. "Did you feel it?"

Megadeath smiled. "Not so much a tremor," he answered, "more a wave."

Shackle nodded. "What was it?" Megadeath said nothing, but simply maintained his smile and switched off the intercom. Now was not the time for the facts, now was the time for the speculation. It was unsurprising that the very minor effects of the bomb could be felt here, although they were sure to have been almost unnoticeable and certainly without any lasting effect.

Returning to our laboratory, we broke open the data-loggers, removing the thick, heavy shielding that protected its contents. Analysing the data we satisfied ourselves all was in order and that the test had been successful. I managed to frown, however, at the thought of 'success' and 'neutron bombs' ever being uttered in the same sentence. Nevertheless, we had emulated the 'success' of the pre-Accident science of old, and according to our data had achieved what they had achieved, or rather had achieved what they had felt achievable. We were pioneers; unlike Grat, our detonation was both deliberate and controlled.

And according to our researched theory, and the data we had collected, these were right about Grat being a fluke, a statistical anomaly where the chain reaction of electromagnetic pulse that operated over an area far greater than the wastelands of Stanix. Our data corroborated their theories that super critical reactions on this scale were always a (very minor) risk, but could not be started deliberately or in any controlled manner.

So that was that, our neutron bomb worked, and that was a good job, because we could not have afforded a retest. We might be fortunate, or rather unfortunate, for the test to have gone by unnoticed, but we could not be ensured of such results if we were to detonate another bomb or another hundred bombs. Someone would surely notice.

They did. Later that week, Megadeath received a message from Decepticon command wanting to know what on Cybertron we had been doing "He's slagged off." Shackle had observed.

Straxus was always 'slagged off', as I pointed out, even though this was the first official communication between the Decepticon authorities outside Stanix and Megadeath in perhaps ten thousand years, maybe more. They would have, no-doubt, all-but forgotten of our existence, so to detect a neutron bomb explosion in the middle of a small, Decepticon-held region would have come as quite a surprise. "Should we reply?" I asked once Shackle had left.

Megadeath shook his head to himself. "Let him sweat." He grinned, and he was right. Lord Straxus, or whoever was in charge these days, did not have the time to meddle with our affairs. Give it enough time and they would surely forget, provided we did not conduct any more tests. And that was fine by me; we had more pressing matters.

Although Megadeath and I made no formal acknowledgement of our test, it did not take long for the rumours to circulate. Even those that had no understanding of the mechanics of neutron bombs were able to grasp its significance, even if it surpassed fear. For them, this 'fear' was misplaced, like they were somehow missing the punchline. For all his psychopathism, our mixed subordinates and annexed citizens were reluctant to believe Megadeath was about to rid them of their miserable existences with a torrent of neutron bombs. Yet simultaneously, it was naОve to believe Megadeath was not up to something; Megadeath was always up to something. Megadeath lived for the reaction he evoked in his peers. He thrived on it. Indeed, my very first impression of him was of someone trying, over-trying maybe, to make that impression, perhaps even to a level of personal discomfort. But in his success he had reaped the benefit of such an impression; he had them in the palms of his hands. So perhaps more than fear, our Stanix was swept by a broad feeling of anxiety. If their sense of redundancy to the war was the catalyst to a new sense of helplessness, then Megadeath was the fuel that sustained them.

But there was no room for complacency. He had them where he wanted them, but to stand still was to take a step backwards on the road to power. However, though we had a long way to run, our ambition could permit us to maintain our pace and take great strides towards our goals. And even if this was not the beginning of the end, it was surely the end of the beginning.

--

CHAPTER 13 The Eye In My Mind

Having taken the neutron bomb to the extreme, having taken thousands of years to calibrate the weapon for maximum effectiveness and having matched all that could realistically have been predicted by the scientists of old, it was time to take a new direction in our research. For Megadeath to grow further in stature, he had to be seen to grow. With our neutron bomb research drawn to a suitable conclusion, it was time to return to our roots and set about a bold new augmentation for Stanix's governor.

Megadeath was keen learner. Everything I researched, he documented for future reference, that he might one day undertake such research under his own steam. Everything I did, he mimicked so as to improve his own skills he had learned in the Medical Corps so long ago. He knew it, and I knew it; did they know it? To 'them', Megadeath was just their tyrannical leader of a so-called 'free-society' with a rather unconventional attitude to liberty. They saw him every century, and for years he was synonymous with power and upgrading above and beyond the realms of maintenance, but aspiring to a divine echelon perhaps just one or two steps above Primus himself.

Megadeath was as keen as I was to see him undertake more work himself, so the question now was of how to assist him in this regard. The answer was deceptively simple; I had to hand over more power to him. I had to bolster his intelligence and allow him to think on his own two feet. Even Megadeath acknowledged this was risky, but after all, this was what we were striving for and it was a stage we had to take. I had to offer Megadeath the means to go off and research his own projects should they take his fancy, away from my prying eyes. For all my hatred for this evil monster that ran our perverted haven from the war, if I could not trust him, who could I trust?

So for the next countless years we worked on design after design, chip after chip, something to augment Megadeath with that would make him more intelligent beyond his current limitations, beyond even those that held me back. We toiled and toyed for what seemed like an eternity. Our reclusiveness was amplified. Our appearance in society every hundred years alongside a token mini-massacre drifted into bi-centennial culls, and then perhaps into haphazard melees every five hundred years or so. We were engrossed.

But there was something halting our progress. Every time we felt we had succeeded there was something new to investigate, a new way in which we could improve the design. Somebody somewhere was trying to tell us something but we could not quite catch the translation.

"You cannot become more intelligent without becoming someone else." I concluded another thousand years later or so. I leant back in the aging chair that had become worn out through years of pondering. We had been kidding ourselves for so long, the truth was a slap in the face. Our designs had been the shortcomings of artificial intelligence. We could not think to stick a couple of microchips inside his head and expect him to absorb them into his cranium without the changing fundamentals of his personality. His mind had been evolving for years, but anyone could see that was just a conscious foray into the dark world of megalomania. No, if Megadeath wanted to think like a living god, he had to really believe he was one and act accordingly.

Only then could he access the powerful strength found in the augmentation of his intelligence. Only then could take himself to that next level. To surpass this level of artificiality, we had to venture into a world of integrated intelligence, a living intelligence that could work in harmony with Megadeath, not just a well of resources that he might pick and choose to use, abuse or not. Power was a union of many components, not a dictatorship of one over the other. That was, after all, how Megadeath and I had come so far together.

We sat in the laboratory with a blank workspace and readied ourselves for this new challenge: an intelligence chip with the ability to self-augment, to develop itself without the need for input or interference from me. In essence I was looking to insert a new mind, a new psyche into Megadeath. One might have suggested there were perhaps one or two too many psyches in Megadeath's head already, so to try to squeeze another was reckless irresponsibility. But I was the one that gave this monster the secrets of the neutron bomb. Either I knew what I was doing, or it was up to Primus to grant Cybertron mercy from my mistakes. My attitude was that we were so far along this road there was no turning back, and such apparent bravado left the notion we were proposing relatively harmless. Besides, in a way, this was a procedure I had undertaken before, what made this any different?

We ignored pleas from Shackle to help provide more amenities for the training of our troops. Our uncouth civilisation continued to attract war-weary soldiers fed up of their valueless contribution to a war that could only end with the deaths of everyone on the planet. Our numbers were growing by the year, perhaps ten or twenty thousand troops now. Still only a fraction of the troops fighting in Taggon to the south, and certainly not a figure anyone of any competence would dare to entertain as comparable to the world at large. Not yet, anyway. But Shackle insisted he needed help. In his unofficial position as Gestapo kingpin, there were simply too many to command effectively. Splinter groups of anarchic rebels were finding niches of Neutralists of their own to exploit. What little of Stanix that did not lie in ruins was tearing itself apart.

We ignored the repeated calls by Straxus to better control our borders. News that Autobots were drifting into our realm alongside battered Decepticon soldiers was reaching high command and they were not happy with the situation at all. But we knew as well as he did Straxus was not in any position to do anything about it; it was not as if we were holding a gun to their heads and forcing them in. And despite his concerns about taking out a satellite directly above our neutron bomb test, there were enough data coming in and out of our borders for him to acknowledge our numbers remained sufficiently low and that the test was a one-off.

For the next Primus-knows how long, we worked solely on the chip. Our new approach to the design yielded a succession of ideas and concepts that kept us busy. At times I almost forgot why I was doing all this. At times I almost forgot the importance of Megadeath and his token appearances. With such a long time between each of his publicity stunts, the onus was on ensuring the success of each. And with each exhibition of his physical and mental prowess he did not disappoint. He was a becoming a living enigma, a legend, a myth and a well-documented sociopath, all at the same time.

What were we up to? What was he up to? The last time Megadeath had been so reclusive, he had been developing a neutron bomb and though the science was lost upon most, the results spoke for themselves. A trip into the wastelands of Stanix to the south east would show the devastatingly benign effect such a quiet weapon could have. A peaceful quiet caused by rapid death. So with Megadeath so dormant from the public eye, they knew something was coming, but quite what that might be they could only speculate. All they could do was wait.

Our development was finally complete. Twenty, thirty, or perhaps forty or fifty thousand years since my graduation from Iacon I had achieved a development of which I could be truly proud. This had nothing to do with weapons, or death, or murder, maiming or 'personal security'. This was about merging a unit of intelligence with the mind of a living entity for personal evolution. This was a mind-altering system that might help us, help Megadeath, to think outside the box my tutors had pushed me to do so long ago. And now it was complete and all that remained was to install this device into his head, into a cavity between and above his eyes that gave him the menacing effect of a third eye.

A pre-programmed chip with the ability to self-augment, to develop and evolve, practically a living psyche in itself. Power and intelligence. The 'eye' was all these things. Installing this device into Megadeath's face was the largest of the steps I would need to take on our journey. To combine intelligence with psychopathism in this way would be to create being of such dangerous proportions the consequences were barely conceivable. But it had to be done to bridge the gap between the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end.

The operation was typically successful. Our combined intelligence saw to it procedures were not overlooked these days. We planned in such meticulous detail that nothing was left to chance, nothing could go wrong. And when he awoke, the device was installed into the centre of his forehead.

In my mind, the eye was more than a microchip, more than a device to aid the mental capacity. In my mind it was handing over the keys to my dreams and ambition. In my mind, the eye had made Megadeath complete, it had made him powerful beyond measure. He had the strength and ability to use and abuse this power at will. In my mind, the eye made Megadeath Megadeath. Now it was time to take our prior research, research that in the past had hit the wall, and smash through that wall into new boundaries, to tackle the impossible. With Megadeath and his mental acquisition I could do just that while he basked in the reaction it would evoke in others.

--

CHAPTER 14 The Eye In Their Mind

Even I found it troublesome enough to diagnose Megadeath's thoughts and emotions and I was suppose to be his right-hand man, or indeed him be mine, so far be it from me to speculate idly the opinions of those that referred to him as their military commander or civilian governor respectfully. But Megadeath's augmented evolution did have a profound effect on his subordinates and social plebs, and some of these were noteworthy.

Those that had known him longest, myself included, had seen his physical appearance develop at an accelerated pace to match the psychological changes that developed his persona. Once the quietly confident soldier, ill-equipped for warfare, but with the ambition for the role on the battlefield to which he was self-assigned, Megadeath had grown in strength and stature.

In addition to his latest mental acquisition, he could also boast a third transformation mode, an aircraft mode improved tenfold and now equipped for modern warfare, multiple armoured plates and protective spines protruding from his head and limbs, as well as an overhaul of all his major joints and internal mechanics improving his efficiency and strength in all departments, all since the days of his foolhardy arrogance and false bravado. Lasers hummed silently upon his forearms, glowing with the fierce reminder of his days of anger.

It had been so long since Megadeath, or indeed since I, had ventured outside of the walls of Fort Scyk it was as if time itself was a memory. Indeed, for all its quantum complexities, it is within the simplicity of time itself that one can find true power. Granted, a fearsome exterior, radical strength and other augmentations could do what time could not, that is to say, to physically alter for the better. We had equipped and re-equipped Megadeath beyond recognition save for his undisturbed but ultimately disturbing grin that he refused absence from his face, the unfaltering and unmistakable face of evil itself. It is true to say his physical development could be neither underestimated nor achieved by time alone, but that was where the mortal ended and the mysticism began

Time begot time. The longer we waited, the longer he was seen to wait. The more we observed, the more he was seen to be observing. Power is nothing without the tangible credibility of authority. And for every armoured spine we replaced, or hydraulic plant we bolstered, or indeed any additional augmentation such as the third 'eye', time could achieve that which the tools of science and engineering could not.

So what of the eye? We both knew this semi-external augmentation chip had substantially bolstered Megadeath's capacity not just on a mental level, but on a physical plane in his ability to assess and respond with action faster than ever. We both knew the personal implications of the device and what it may or may not hold in store for us. But what effect did this monumental augmentation have upon our minions? How did they see it, and how would time enhance it?

They knew it was coming, whatever 'it' was, but it had been so long in coming it had to be something special. And when they saw it I heard from the whispers of his subordinates that Megadeath now possessed a so-called 'all-seeing' eye. He could see anyone at anytime from anywhere. Indeed, it was upon news of this rumour during its development, the experimental trials and prototypes, that I chose to make his 'third eye' external, for I had planned originally to house the chip internal to his cranium. But why disappoint? The realisation of rumours of yesterday spawns the legends of tomorrow. The eye was complete, so now the blind eye was all-seeing, in accordance to the legend of Megadeath that had grown in time from urban myth to accepted fact.

Of course, the eye was nothing more than an incredibly complex fusion of atomic circuitry and other nano-technology that could see no further than the visions his active optics chose to display for him, but time, coupled with the rumours, had defined the role of his eye before it had even been created. Stanix saw what it wanted to see, yet the only eye to see it was blind, was his blind eye itself. But they needed not to know this. So far as they were concerned, Megadeath was even more powerful than ever, in yet another new way. But in a way that was now so well-documented, more important than his increase power was that with each new augmentation came a new change, a change in perception. The reaction to change never failed to disappoint and the appointment of his eye was no exception.

In a rare public appearance, Megadeath and I flew into the centre of Stanix amidst the daily activities of the civilian population. Thanks to a small network of surveillance operatives and their equipment, I could brief Megadeath on the routine of some key inhabitants. Of course, this surveillance was far from all-seeing, but it relinquished sufficient habitual traits of our wretched society to further magnify the reputation that haunted the minds of the believers, and at the very least, spook those that did not.

Stanix descent into partial anarchy continued. Lawlessness had been slowly replaced by small teams forming vigilante militia led by one-time soldiers such as Aftershock, and authoritative Neutralists like Shackle. But for all their charismatic claims of authority they had no official jurisdiction. Megadeath's apparent reluctance to intervene but instead to sit back and let this once prosperous state tear itself apart only added to his mystery and their misery. Why did he not care that his empire was collapsing? Could he not see the effect his apathy was having? Of course he could, he had an all-seeing eye, after all. And with his venture into the city came the confirmation. We heard the whispers gather momentum into an audible ball of fascination. With every augmentation came a new twist to his temprement. What was he going to do today?

It was at about this time, over the previous thousand years or so, the rumours of old began to resurface and circulate like a never-ending vortex of suspicion, spiralling, gaining momentum until spinning out at some unpredictable tangent at some hapless target. Megadeath was at the Verdana Chasm that day, so the rumours claimed, that fateful day thousands of years ago when the invasion party departed Jenta to invade the Autobot-held Bana side of the canyon. Championed by the whispers of the handful of survivors of the massacre, finally daring to voice anonymous dissent, the blasphemous accused Megadeath of involvement a range of heretical practices. How did he survive when almost nobody else did? What was so special about him? Was he just lucky? Or was he was simply immortal? Perhaps he was the spawn of Chaos-bringer Himself? Or, so the new whispers colluded, perhaps Megadeath had staged the event, a gaping stunt as cold and unforgiving as the Chasm itself.

The smoking guns of more recent, personally-attributed genocides did little to distance Megadeath from these rumours. But Megadeath would say nothing. He would smile inanely, drop subtle and less-than-subtle clues alike, cryptic, hand-picked words wrapped in careless layers of blunt, explosive violence. His undistinguished actions did little to alleviate the stares so cold, they could burn only the armour of Megadeath's even colder exterior. Was he for real? Did he really kill all those Decepticon soldiers? When confronted by these, the voiceless questions of a number of minor soldiers, Megadeath did not come out and declare publicly his involvement in the massacre in Jenta, but he did not deny it either. It was up to these subordinates to decide for themselves. He remained as publicly reclusive in this manner as he had ever been, but saw to answer by the only means he know how - with violence and time. But his temper was not aimed at those that dared to question him, but at other, more random targets, those that may ultimately have been weaker than him, but in essence were pawns to prove his physical capabilities, but more importantly his mentally capabilities.

His draconian measures were brutal, if effective. He may never have admitted his role in the destruction of the bridge that day, but his single-handed tirade in the centre of Scyk, venting unprovoked anger upon the streets of a crowded trading day saw to it he was never questioned again. Whether or not he actually did the deed was immaterial; Megadeath had shown himself capable. If not an admission of guilt, a declaration of admiration for whomever may have been so. And once again, it was a victory for time that would inevitably fan the flames of rumour into an inferno of popular mythology, weaving fact and fiction into an indecipherable fabric of blanket cryptology.

I stood amidst the smouldering wreckage of what had, until just a few minutes ago, been a busy market square. The bodies of civilian neutralists and redundant Decepticon soldiers inactive for so long they may have forgotten how to fight, or indeed whose side they were on, adorned the craters that had been punished by his devastating concussion cannons and lasers. Examining one of many unfortunates lying dormant on the street floor, I flexed my fingers nervously. I reached out and tipped the remnants of a semi-decapitated victim to one side, the traditional Cybertronian mark of respect for the death of a favoured one or innocent, a practice subscribed to by just a minority in this world of death and devastation, a token response that perhaps I alone had upheld on the battleground serving as a Field Medic.

I had an audience, a handful of braves daring to see what was going to happen next. The stood silently staring across the street in bewilderment. Megadeath had let Scyk decay. He had the power to prevent it, the power to regenerate it, yet chose to do nothing. And when the people of this once fine city had taken it upon themselves to redevelop their townships block by block, it was just a matter of time before Megadeath would make on of his fleeting appearances and undo the hard work they had invested in their communities. Why? Was it some personal vendetta against the neutralist population? Was it simply because he enjoyed murdering the defenceless? Was it to prove something to his remaining and acquired troops, or indeed himself? The senseless wonder continued long after I had left with the discomforting stares and sobbing of our subordinates, overwhelmed by their feelings of inadequacy and inferiority.

I travelled silently back to the Fort recently extended (in the loosest sense of the word) to cover encompass my favourite technical centre. I said nothing until I slammed the broken door to one of the laboratories no longer operating automatically through years of neglect and maligned levels of servicing. Megadeath was waiting, a smile of content apparent.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself." I cursed in open-ended direction, unsure whether I was speaking to him or indeed to myself. I leant forward and used the bench to support my ever-increasing weight. Megadeath had already updated his kill count accordingly and smiled. This was not the first time I had felt this way. The repetitive nature of our association had dictated this action time and time again, yet the passive nature of my spark had dictated my remorse with each episode. And each time, Megadeath would reassure me in his own way that this was necessary.

"Give it time." He would reply each time with confidence. "Everything comes together in time." He stood up straight and walked around a bench and tapped carelessly on a couple of items of unused equipment. "One day you'll wonder what all the fuss was about." He predicted. "Forty kills here or there," he remarked trivially, "it's nothing."

He was right. In the grand scheme, given that perhaps a hundred or thousand times that many, or even more were being slaughtered meaninglessly on the Front Lines around the planet every day. At least the deaths of these innocents served a purpose, even if that purpose seemed about as clear as the stench-filled skies of the battlefields in which the majority of their counterparts would die. I nodded and agreed.

For all the effect of the eye upon his subordinates, the most profound effect was its mesmerising power it was starting to show over me. I knew Megadeath was right and had been all along. I was so caught up in the massacres myself, this was the first time in ten millennia I had realised what this brutal savage was doing. I tried to con myself into thinking I cared, that I was still the same pacifist I was when I set out on this audacious journey. Maybe I was, but my personal sense of guilt was diminishing with every episode. I could not remember the last time I was angry at one of Megadeath's attacks on his civilians and soldiers in the town. The truth was I getting used to it. I was not angry, it was simply fake.

And this was the way it had to be and would continue to be for years to come. And it was. For thousands of years, we continued to operate in the primeval way. We would watch, wait and deliver in the crude manner in a never-ending cycle of a mundane pursuit of perfection, and in every cycle, time played its essential role in the legend that was Megadeath. Where and when allowing Megadeath to inflict his ills upon his world came any easier for me, I could not tell. But with Megadeath, it became routine, perceived almost as a chore rather than either an opportunity for a twisted interpretation of fun or a callous exertion of wicked evils.

--

CHAPTER 15 A Change Of Heart

Cosmetic surgery, so they say, is an addiction. Sufferers can remain in denial of their vice for prolonged periods of time. It was a one-way road, a long, one-way road. If you are in any doubt of the length the journey will be, then my advice is not even to start; but to stick to the straight and narrow. Many began and faltered. But for them it was too late. Their journey had begun. Just strides along the road the compulsion for augmentation would leave them nervous wrecks. What started as a minor upgrade became a never-ending pursuit for physical perfection, and all the psychological trauma that accompanied.

What about me? Sure, I'd undertaken some procedures. The strength in my arms had been bolstered considerably at the behest of my commanding officers during my Basic Training. The fact I had helped conduct the operation myself went some way to convince them I was Field Medic material. To volunteer actively my services in this was perceived as insane, but to carry out such duties required, and proved, intelligence. My abilities in this manner, I believe, outweighed my apparently ludicrous request to join the Medical Corps.

The difference was that I was not in denial; I was the surgeon not the patient. All my augmentation surgery was now for him, not for me. Megadeath would demand and I would oblige, yet paradoxically it me that was demanding and he obliged. I had but one demand left; his entire raison d'Йtre. If its importance could not be overstated, then neither could the dangers, dangers on so many levels I could scarcely comprehend them all at once.

What if I should fail? On a personal note, my life's work would have been for nothing. All the suffering, the build-up to this, my final offering, would have been in vain. The oil of Krok, Grennis and those countless deaths I had allowed, and indeed encouraged, of Megadeath would be on my hands, a burden I could ill-afford to carry. Can the ends ever justify the means? Well, not if should fail.

And then there was the chance that Megadeath would fail in one of many different directions. What if he failed to comply with my demands? What if he failed to maintain the vague sense of control I dictated of him? His 'third eye' had relinquished a certain degree of my control over him, allowing him to think on his own, as per my demands. The question was whether he could think with the responsibility I wanted him to take. To the ignorant, this would seem another showing of my wanton lunacy, but I had to believe this was, for the moment, a faГade that would be shattered.

Then there was the distinct possibility that his life would have been in vain too. Again, the deaths of thousands would have been for nothing. But even this paled into insignificance at the thought of him dying during the operational procedures, now or in the future.

But more than any of this was the danger of succeeding. It was a step into the theoretical unknown, the final step, a step that still scared me. Was I prepared for this? More importantly, was Megadeath prepared?

Was he prepared? This was a question I was asking myself over and over. Was he ready? That is what it really came down to. Was he ready? The fact I was contemplating this would suggest he was not. If he were ready I would have been incapable of negative thoughts. But, by the nature of my project, if he were ready, and I was still questioning, then it would probably be too late. The moment would have passed and failed.

But I knew he would accept the final facelift, the cosmetic surgery to make him complete. I taken him from the battleground, boisterous but weak, and transformed him into the monster Stanix feared today. He had the conviction to do the job I could not, a job that apparently, no one else had the conviction to do. If I did not make him complete, then for him to have laid claim to his troops with his power would be to defraud them, and this was something else I could not allow.

For the next countless years we worked in secret once more and more importantly, for the next countless years we were seen to be working in secret. What could we have been working on for such duration? What evil scheme could our combined minds be developing to scourge our hapless subordinates? What taboo was being explored that very minute from behind closed doors? What line drawn eons ago were we overstepping today? Maybe something, maybe nothing, but ultimately it was the not knowing that drove them to anxiety that we could exploit through the miracle of propaganda.

It was perhaps one hundred thousand years since we took over Stanix, perhaps two; we did not keep count. The war still raged as intensively as ever. Some cities around Cybertron fell, some were resurrected; some remained desolately barren regions of unworkable land, a relentless breeding ground for pain, suffering and intolerable hardship. Cities like Taggon to the south of Stanix were purged of existence in this way, yet still the Autobots and Decepticons in this region fought tirelessly for this territorial wasteland. While parts of the planet may have enjoyed short-lived or temporary ceasefires and over the years many minor factions had come and gone, the bigger war raged without respite. And now it was time to start to change the bigger war; now it was time to operate once more and put our minions out their misery. It was time to show them our latest, and final, research project.

I entered our private operating room for what I intended to be the penultimate time over the course of his latest augmentation, checking finally the equipment that I had prepared for tomorrow's operation. It was going to be tricky at best or catastrophic at worst. Ideally I would have had assistance, but assistance in this procedure would have required the trust only attainable by the conclusion of the operation itself; a vicious cycle that had to begin somewhere and between us we decided that now was the time.

I found myself sat by the operating table, aimlessly spinning a tool in my hand awakening from my trace. I remember looking down at my hands and thinking of some metaphor or other regarding power and it being in my own hands. But that was the whole point; I wanted power out of my hands in into Megadeath's.

I stared deep into the semi-translucent box on the bench. It looked every bit the warped fantasy it was, the crazy culmination of thousands of years of research and mental and physical anguish, for it housed the creation of my dreams, that for which I had strived since the day I decided to quit Milatech all those years ago. It was hideous. It was beautiful. It was everything that Megadeath stood for.

But was it really necessary? I could not be sure, and it was this indecision that encumbered me now. For all my fears of success or failure, ultimately the box that stared back at me was immaterial. Its mysterious contents would, ideally, remain mysterious, revealed only to a privileged few that might be able to grasp the monumental scale of our forethought. But if failure would be cataclysmic, as I had already concluded, and the box was not strictly necessary, could there be another way around this conundrum?

Perhaps I could fake it? It was an option that would theoretically yield the same grotesque end without the high-risk means that might result in disaster. Who would know? Nobody would know. Nobody could be sure. I felt my hand hit my face as a wave of relief passed over me. Of course, why did I not think of it before?

Standing up, I walked over to another bench and cleared a space. I picked a number of items from the storage shelves and began to place them on the bench, arranging them as my plans formulated within my mind. It was easy. It would look just like the real thing. Besides, what was the real thing? Nobody knew what the real thing was. In a way I had faked everything so far anyway. The neutron bomb was real, as were the thousands of deaths attributed to my colleague. And my hatred for this, the vilest of all Transformers on Cybertron was as real as the hatred his anyone that knew him felt. But the lies we had been living, hidden from prying eyes more than made up for this frivolous foray into truth. A lie is a lie; what difference would a bigger or smaller lie make?

"But he would know." I paused and spoke out loud. "He would know." I muttered again, thumping my hand on the bench. I was angry and lashed out me arm across the bench, scattering my new materials across the floor with loud clangs. Whatever I knew, he would know, and if he could not trust me, how could I trust him?

"What would I know?" he asked, making his presence in the room known, making the correct assumption I was talking about him, as if he did not know already. Instinctively, I looked up. Fooling the rest of the planet was the easy part; fooling Megadeath would be the dangerous bit. I could not afford to con him in this way, for all the reasons of failure I had thought of before. Were he ever to find out the truth, what would there be to prevent others from finding out? His whole charade could be exposed. The only way for him to believe the truth was to keep him true, or true to our original lies at the very least.

I shook my head, trying to clear the frustrating thoughts of strange logic and counter-logic from my head. I scarcely understood what I was thinking: lies and lies mixed with more lies and lies. But the plan had been formulated over a hundred millennia ago as it came to me in a drunken stupor in my apartment the evening after Grennis had shown me the conceptual simplicities without ever actually realising it. If I just stuck to the program our truths and fiction would separate themselves once the time was right.

Megadeath walked around the bench himself, examining the operating equipment for the final time. He made it abundantly clear to me through his body language that he expected this operation to be completed on schedule and without hitch. Faking the results was not an option. I nodded to myself. It was foolish of me to think I might be able to deceive this monster and still attain the desired results. It is hard enough to live a lie; to live two is nigh on impossible.

I looked at the box of tricks once more, the next step and one of the final steps in my encumbered journey of global salvation. I could not falter now. It was a time for resolute strength and determination to succeed in a way I could scarcely believe possible all those years ago. I placed the final tool on the bench we left the room.

The operation began the following day and was conducted in stages. Of all the augmentations we had undertaken, there were none as risky as this. We had to take utmost care for there was a genuine chance Megadeath might die during the operation and out quest for perfection. I could not allow him to die; the pointless deaths of thousands of innocent robots dictated as such. But as slow and deliberate as this stage-by-stage approach was, it was nothing compared to the eons we had spent getting here. It was better to do it slowly and do it right.

And after months of delicate operations, careful wiring and painful conscious CPU-surgery, Megadeath was complete. It had taken some hundred thousand years or so to develop him from that unknown, shambles of a soldier I had found around the time I quit Milatech, to the iron-fisted ruler of a forgotten empire. Had I known it would have taken so long, perhaps I might not have committed my life and times for such a cause, but if I could not commit to Megadeath, then to what could I do so?

It was partially because I knew the scale of the war on Cybertron was unprecedented, a global phenomenon that had engulfed every neighbourhood of every city it had strayed near to, and threatened every other neighbourhood of every other city it had yet to condemn. A hundred thousand years was about as significant to my life as the minor number of kills to which Megadeath could be held personally accountable was as significant to the billions of other deaths the war had drawn. This war was not going anywhere. This war simply could not end this way. The war was a continuous routine of death and misery. The split amongst the global population saw to it the war would not cease until one side attained had out-right victory. So I could maintain that to invest my life in its conquest was shrewd economics in anyone's books.

Megadeath stood against the reflective pane and admired his augmentation. His hands reached to the glass as if to caress the image before returning to his chest once more.

"We need to get hold of Shackle." He demanded of me.

Communication on Cybertron was a pitiful shadow of its former self. Prior to the start of the war the planet was littered with transmitters and receivers, artificial satellites and optical networks. One could communicate with practically anyone or anything at practically anytime from practically anywhere on the planet.

But in this new age of modern warfare, to cut communication was to have the effect of a million troops in battle. Legions of uninformed troops were nothing without intelligence and as such it was taken as read that communication equipment endured a permanent cycle of sabotage and resurrection.

On the field, the warring militaries invested in communications personnel to keep their officers informed, in the guise of Soundwave (for the Decepticons) and Blaster (for the Autobots), to name but two. Their abilities in terms of transmission and receiving of orders were common knowledge. Both were highly decorated.

Shackle was no Soundwave, and we had not spoken with him since our last 'official' meeting some two thousand years ago, whereupon he had probably updated us on the number of nomadic troops he had herded up and the successful cadets that had graduated from the Stanix academy. That side of things had never interested me, nor had I allowed it to interest Megadeath. It was in conflict to our priorities to feint interest in power. It detracted us from our goals.

His image may not have appeared on the aging visual equipment, but at least his voice could be heard, a minor victory in itself. He gave us his report on the authoritative status of our realm. We listened courteously and completed the formalities before Megadeath gave his orders.

His message was simple and articulate. He demanded an awareness campaign, the deliverance of news to be heard by all, no matter the cost. "Tell them to prepare." concluded Megadeath.

"What are they preparing for?" Shackle asked.

Megadeath looked down at the warm chest cavity that glowed from within. He ran his finger around its perimeter for perhaps the fiftieth time that day. "Tell them to prepare for a god," he grinned, pausing momentarily, "a living god."

We heard a couple of clicks of equipment at Shackle's end before his voice returned. "Okay." He complied. "Prepare for a living god." He confirmed to himself as if Megadeath had ordered Shackle compile something as trivial as a maintenance checklist of oils, fluids and lubricants. "And when can they expect this living god?" he asked casually.

Megadeath maintained his stare at the purple flames burning in his own chest, a smile daring emerging from the grin. "I don't know." I confessed. "But hopefully any time soon." I offered allowing myself the pleasure of a smile. "Any time soon."

--

CHAPTER 16 Advent

Quite what impact Megadeath's prophecy of the materialisation of a 'living god' might have made on the common robot was unclear from our vantage point high above what remained of the city of Scyk. We rarely left our fort complex, save the frequent visits to our favourite laboratories, and we certainly avoided general contact with the subordinates of our empire. Nor could Shackle amass such data on our behalf. His skills were more in distributing information than in its gathering.

Nevertheless, while Megadeath may not have made a personal appearance, it was reasonable to assume the mutterings at street level would be based on this latest Megadeath proclamation of his personally viewed stature of immortal divinity. Posters and visual display units broadcast more images of their leader than ever before, gleaming testimonies to his self-promoted brilliance and extraordinary leadership and vision. To any party outside of Stanix capable of criticising his methods, the promotion of his personal well-being while neglecting the very empire and citizens he stood proudly atop, the civilised response would be to place embargos and other forms of diplomatic sanctions upon Stanix in order to force out their oppressive dictator. But this was a time of war. Regime change on a local level figured not in the plans of either the Autobots nor the Decepticons, nor indeed any of the minor neutralist alliances.

To deny him the respect he demanded was as much an insult to his followers as their leader himself. Those Decepticons he had set free from the shackles of war still craved the taste of oil. Their lives on the Front Line had bred them to fight, and though liberated from the tribulations of forced conflict. It was in their very nature to find reason to fight for themselves and not necessarily to fight for the badge that may once have hung from their chests. In most cases, reason was objectified in the vandalism of Megadeath's tributes and those that had dared to defile them would be made to pay.

But these soldiers keen to uphold the only laws they could (namely the respect for Megadeath and his uncouth methods of liberation) were a minority, sparsely populated and sporadic in density. To an extent, as the effective Minister for Propaganda in this region of Cybertron, Shackle was possibly the most recognised figure after Megadeath himself, and were it not for the constant pictorial reminders of Megadeath, Shackle would be by far he of whom their was most public appreciation.

But Shackle was not a leader. Shackle was good at his job, but that job was not to direct the troops, merely to locate and herd, and to fill them full of the messages we dictated. Between them, the self-styled vigilante groups and Shackle himself had kept resistance down to a bare minimum. However, for all their skills, it was clear neither he nor his militia were 'living gods'; that was a title that was surely reserved for Megadeath?

By now, such was the influx of troops into Stanix bored with their respective commanders' never-ending quest for dominance, even Megadeath could not deny his 'methods' of training now required some degree of structure. So periodically, Megadeath began to meet with some of the more powerful robots that had appointed themselves as social dignitaries and leaders of small militia movements within the state in lieu of making more public appearances in front of the masses. Though offering them no official jurisdiction, it paid to be aware of those that were influencing his troops in his absence. As such, Aftershock, Jetstreamer, Starlight, Underdog and the like were now seen around the halls of Fort Scyk alongside Megadeath and Shackle. They liked to consider themselves as advisors. Quite what Megadeath felt they were I did not know, but I certainly did not see them as advisors. I was Megadeath's go-between and until such time as I could be sure to find a replacement, there would be no others. It did not hurt to let them live their fantasy so we saw not to interfere, and should the impending deity, the saviour of Cybertron, emerge and require there services, then so be it. But for now we chose simply to humour them.

Besides, as strong and powerful as he was, Shackle and the others were in no position to even contemplate a coup against their leader. His augmentations over the years had grown to match the strength of his ego he had shown for years on the battlegrounds of Taggon and throughout Stanix. His intellect had been developed far and beyond what was already an intelligent mind. So said this new-found reasoning came at the expense of his sanity, but I knew differently.

However, that was not to say there would not come such a time where his leadership was challenged by a growing power within the ranks. But once again, Megadeath had succeeded in ripping up the rule book. At a time when he was finally allowing others some semblance of power, he ought to have been ensuring this power did not go to their heads. Instead during the coming years Megadeath began to actively encourage such behaviour. Few dared, and even fewer made any impact. Megadeath was too powerful, both physically stronger and mentally more resolute. These pretenders' fate was rarely as swift as the decision Megadeath made for them.

But his motivation was not entirely without reason; we felt those without the spine to challenge for the position of 'living god' hardly justified our time of day. One by one, such challenges were fended off, usually in a physical or verbal bloodbath.

Until one day, He came. He was an unknown Decepticon to Megadeath; a distant recollection of the name in some passing reference, perhaps, but his role as an up and coming Decepticon assassin had, until today, slipped us by unnoticed. It turned out that this assassin had been arrested and detained by one of the many vigilante groups in Stanix and was now being brought to Megadeath, as per his orders.

Our existence isolated from the rest of the Decepticon empire and world at large saw that our records on our soldiers were out of date. No-one had bothered to update them with MIAs, KIAs, and so forth. No-one oversaw the inclusion of new names on the register of cadets and graduates. The non-appearance of an individual and his history in our database served to prove very little. Conversely, though limited, data could be obtained on Skydrive, Grennis, Snapdragon and even Krok had we been so inclined. Though out of date, history does not change its records; his file may not have registered his death, but it does not disguise Krok's past record of leadership.

So when we pulled up the file on this newcomer from our database of records we were pleasantly surprised to find it locked. It was cloaked with a security encryption. Clearly somebody somewhere wanted him and his past to remain a mystery, protection from an invasion of privacy. However, an advantage of straying so far from mainstream social inclusion was that, despite our ample technological surroundings, the protection protocol of our records had not been updated either. It was a simple matter for me to crack the code and expose his past.

He was an assassin. Someone had in all probability sent this mechanoid to kill Megadeath, possibly the result of his neutron bomb test all those years ago tipping the balance, or simply an excuse to erase Megadeath by one of his many enemies formed along his life; I doubt Hatchet could remember Megadeath, but perhaps Snapdragon or even Stalwart still had a chip on their respective shoulders. But it went further than that, we felt. In this age of mindless killing and violence, anyone could kill anyone and no-one would bat an optic, there were simply no means to vindicate personal grievances. This one had to have come from higher up the chain.

Megadeath's meddling with affairs internal to Stanix had been seen as immaterial to the Decepticons, but with his dangerous notoriety now threatening beyond its scant borders and mainstream Decepticon territory, perhaps it was finally seen to be time to rid Stanix of its unorthodox dictator before his methods risked affecting the rest of the empire. After all, his numbers were growing by the day as more and more soldiers defected from the orthodox ranks to his heretic cult. Our progress had been slow but steady. But how were they to know that without the vital missing ingredient, such growth was limited? And how were they to know that in trying to quash a naturally unsustainable regime, they may well have magnified its credibility?

So Megadeath was to be assassinated. This assumption, though based on data that threatened to be severely out of date, was felt to be a valid one; he had been caught sneaking around Stanix, after all. Logically, this meant the target needed protection, contingency plans and a higher step-up in security. This meant a greater emphasis on screening those entering our region. Perhaps this meant it was time to update our records so we could monitor our subordinates more closely in order to minimise the impact of potential espionage.

To have his privacy invaded by the intrusion by such a murderer charged with his elimination, one might have expected Megadeath to react in unkind. Indeed, one might expect any number of agonising and grotesque tortures to await this sorry individual who dared challenge his authority. A concentrated acid bath, perhaps, or the dreaded electro-noose might be fitting of such a heathen, a Decepticon no less, here to alleviate Stanix of its Decepticon governor.

To anyone but Megadeath it would have meant all of the above. Fear and paranoia combined well to excuse the motivation for torture. But Megadeath's reaction was one far from despondency and perversity. When Megadeath had first read the word 'assassin' on the screen of the records of captured foe, he slunk to his knees. His drop, though at first glance might have appeared as though fearing his imminent demise, could not have had a more unexpected meaning. Like the weight of a hundred worlds had been lifted from his shoulders, he raised his arms high and clasped his hands together. A smile, a grin, a wicked cackle even, escaped from his mean face. "Thank Primus!" he blasphemed as his voice dared to emit a bold laughter. For a few minutes he savoured the moment, allowing his fingers to flex into eager fists, arms trembling with nervous delight. "Assassin." He whispered to himself, acknowledging the impact his reputation had made finally upon those outside Stanix, "Perfect."

He left his prejudices to one side for the moment and took the liberty of placing business before pleasure. We had been waiting in the reclusive wings of the Fort for longer than we cared to remember. Time was slipping us by. We still had a monumental mountain to climb, but we could not even step foot along its rugged path yet. We had a position on offer, someone to be lead, then to lead, someone to elevate, then to elevate us; a champion.

We read on. He was an aristocrat-turned-soldier with experience in leading troops on the battlefield as well as civilians off the 'field. Strong and menacing, he was considered dangerous and loyal. "Loyal ?" he asked himself with a smile.

Loyalty is steadfast. It is pure and unmoving in its most perfect form, a testimony to the mutual dependency one may forge with one or more parties. Loyalty is about a bond of unity, protection and self-sacrifice for the common good. These were the traits bounded about by popular definition anyway. But for all its philosophical meanderings, Megadeath had his own personal interpretation.

Loyalty is merely a quantifiable appreciation of affiliation, nothing more. Whether it is sinful slavery through blackmail, bribery, wealth redistribution and power, or more positive mental encapsulation through logical ideology, rational stability, politics and simple flattery, anyone can be bought; it is simply a case of appealing to the correct senses and negotiating to a shrewd compromise. I had learnt as much throughout my career in Iacon, Stanix and Taggon prior to the war, highlighted no more clearly than my own succumbing to the Decepticons. It is just business, and there is no business like the trading in loyalty, especially when the currency is a healthy mix of greed, ambition and fear.

Megadeath's spiked hand bashed heavily on the aging console activating the intercom and shaking its damaged faГade a little. "Bring him to me!" he had demanded. He had to meet this heroic yet foolish Decepticon, to see for himself the stature his old records said of him. Could he possibly be he who we sought?

It took some time to transfer him from the detention centre and in his impatience Megadeath took to pacing left to right, and back and forth along his long command room. He stood gazing out of the battered window that offered the gloomy view of a depressing Stanix evening. We ignored the foreground of the derelict and decaying walls that formed our command centre and focused into the distance, awaiting our prey.

"Come on!" demanded Megadeath impatiently, turning and pacing the length of the room again before returning hastily to his view lest he might miss him. In the distance a number of guards appeared out of the murky fog. There were four, five, perhaps six of them, walking and surrounding a central figure. Megadeath stared smiling with palms pressed flat against the full-height glass, fingers curling, straining with anticipation. That had to be him. Even from this distance we could make out the electro-bonds that held the captive securely, bright luminous beams of energy that kept him from transforming and forced him to walk in an indignant shuffle, his back bent over a little and facing the floor.

There had been so many false advents before, of course. Those we had felt perhaps worthy of such a position had failed to impress through a lack of committed deliverance. Candidates were few and far between, yet this one surpassed others because of his determined presence. He had marched into Stanix and had evaded capture until being intercepted in Parranite, not all that far from Scyk itself. And now he was here. And even if it were not to be, even if he were not to grasp the bars of opportunity that others may have mistaken for confinement, then there would be others in time. But for now it was time for Megadeath to do what he did best √ a one-on-one duel of megalomaniacal proportions.

The doors scraped open with the rusted stubbornness of a thousand years' neglect, and from the bright, well-lit corridor emerged half a dozen silhouettes and the bonded assassin. He was still hunched over, struggling to maintain a state of balance even though he had stopped walking. Megadeath eyed up the forlorn figure and assessed him and his threat. He shook his head pitifully before turning his attention to his escort. "Get out of my sight!" He spat calmly yet candidly. It was not usual for Megadeath to offer any word of thanks or even recognition that his orders had been fulfilled. They were grunts, not worthy of his time. But what of the soldier standing uneasily at his mercy? It was time to find out.

His name was Thunderwing.

--

CHAPTER 17 The Changing Of The Guard

Megadeath stood Thunderwing in the centre of the room before walking around him, eyeing up his shackled form one more. Returning to face the assassin in the eye, Megadeath shook his head. "I suppose they told you I was insane?" He asked casually, poking a finger against the side of his head and twisting it a little.

Thunderwing said nothing, but maintained his focus on the tyrant. Megadeath's reputation was of infamous notoriety. So it was claimed, conversation was a mental challenge not be underestimated for his twisted and warped mind had become unpredictable and dangerous, beguiling and hypnotic. His powerful augmentations over the years had served only to bolster his mesmerising power he held over his detainees, power of torment in which he revelled.

"I'll tell you what." suggested Megadeath casually. "I'll offer you a deal. If you want to kill me, then you can do so, no questions asked." He offered with generous and predictable unpredictability, an explicit assumption that Thunderwing was here for that reason. "But first," he continued, raising a finger, "I'm going to have a go at changing your mind for you." Megadeath added his trademark catch to the deal. So said his reputation, with Megadeath there was always a catch. "But please, bear in mind, if you will excuse the pun, that this is what I do: I change people's minds." Thunderwing knew as well as Megadeath did that he was hardly in a position to negotiate. "Deal?" He asked. Thunderwing nodded slowly, choosing to remain silent.

"Trust is very important." He continued. "But it must not be abused." He warned and pressed a button on the hand-held control box. The energy beams dissipated and Thunderwing's bondage ended. "Do you trust me?" He asked. Thunderwing still said nothing, but held his focus on the General.

It was good advice, so claimed Megadeath's documented history, not to speak with Megadeath at all if it could be helped, or if it were absolutely necessary, then to prepare oneself as much as possible beforehand. To Megadeath, conversation was a sport and required a victor, and he maintained his unbeaten status by his mastery of subtlety and trickery. He may not have mastered the public speaking of great leaders, but on a one-to-one level he remained as confident as ever, whereupon the influence of his powerful 'eye' chip came into its own.

To allow him to wander off-subject without fully appreciating the direction in which he was leading was mental suicide. One had to be prepared for attack from any number of new angles that might appear out of nothing. A seemingly innocent word here, the suggestion of an irrelevant side issue there, all combined to form a deliberate intrusion into one's mind with malicious intent. The only way to compete on a level plane was to take nothing for granted, for the moment one lets down one's guard, he strikes with compassionless venom. The more one holds back, the more he tries to find a way around one's mental barriers and the more he tries to find a way inside. Evidence of his uncanny ability to manipulate conversations in his deceptively trivial approach to speech would be exposed only once he had succeeded in such manipulation of one's thought process too. Did he trust him? Quite simply, Megadeath was not to be trusted.

Thunderwing allowed himself a moment or two to flex his aching shoulders slowly and stand up a little straighter, but ensured he made no sudden movements. The trust may not have been there, but at least he heeded the warning. "That's better." announced Megadeath, tossing the control box into the rubble and other debris to the side of the room. "So much less undignified." They stood barely apart for a moment as if aware of the mutual mistrust, but trying to build up a level of respect anyway. Realistically, either one of them could have lashed out at his prone opponent, but the consequences of which would have been unknown. However, their wordless conversation told each of them neither was about to do so. Megadeath nodded respectfully and took a step or two backwards to allow a little more room between them.

In truth, no amount of preparation could fully ready one for Megadeath's verbal onslaught. He would search relentlessly for a weakness and once he achieved this, he would find a way inside at any cost. And as much as one had to treat every sentence of his, every word and even every pause as if it served a purpose, he would read the same in his opposition. I had spent thousands of years as a student listening intently to lecturers and over that time I felt I had built up a good understanding of subconscious body language, but it was as if Megadeath had taken subliminal interpretation to another level.

"I am an advocator of education." began Megadeath. "An ambassador to learning, if you will." he smiled. "I like to learn." he admitted. "And in all my education there was one thing I learned over and above anything else, something more important than one could have ever hoped to comprehend." Megadeath paused with an ironic look of bemusement on his face before smiling. "Today's your lucky day." he explained. "I'm going to let you in on it." Megadeath promised, "I'll let you learn what I learned one day many thousands of years ago." He explained, pointing a finger at Thunderwing.

"You know," disclosed Megadeath casually, "I went to Grat, to the conference, to the declaration of the Grat Pact." He continued. Thunderwing looked a little surprised that a brute like Megadeath could have the intellect for such an event. "I guess I was just along for the ride." He continued, sensing Thunderwing's surprise. "I always maintained that I had no business being there really, but I managed to sneak in with some lame scientist-type to eavesdrop. He didn't even know I'd gatecrashed his gig!" He beamed, recollecting the event. His smile faded, like a distant memory had disturbed him. "And now Shockwave wants me dead, yes?" He asked, off-subject, as if he was reading my own mind, the memory of Shockwave's presence in Grat rekindled sparks of my own hatred for him. Thunderwing nodded in confirmation but maintained his silence, his eyes still staring directly into Megadeath's own. "If I wanted him dead, I wouldn't send assassins after him." He muttered something about crude logic to himself. "Still, no matter." He smiled more clearly.

"Actually," began Thunderwing, "it wasn't Shockwave who sent me." Megadeath's face changed to one of bemusement. Of all the things Thunderwing could say to prove his vocal abilities for the first time, being corrected of his own assumptions was something he had neither foreseen nor favoured. Then with deliberation, his expression changed to one of annoyance. He had led himself to believe his death had been ordered from the top. If an assassin should be sent to terminate someone of such notoriety as himself, then it should warrant this appointment being made by someone as notorious as himself also. "Shockwave may want you dead, but he's not the one who sent me." He admitted. Megadeath frowned again, inviting him to go on. "It was Razorclaw," enlightened Thunderwing, referring to Shockwave's number two, "and Ultra Magnus."

Megadeath's frown stretched into a grin at this comment. His reputation of hair-trigger insanity had now drawn attention from the Autobots too. He stood staring into the air for a moment, a smile across his face. "Funny." observed Thunderwing, recapturing Megadeath's attention, who grimaced. "It's funny that no one saw you in Grat." he expanded, apparently eager to steer the conversation back to sanctuary of its roots, taking on board the advice of his peers about avoiding blind subjects. "You're not exactly the sort of bot to blend into a group."

Megadeath frowned a little more. "I was quieter back then. And my visage," he gestured with an elegant twist of palms across his grotesque figure, "was somewhat more reserved." The sharp teeth in his smile returned as he recalled all the surgical upgrades I had since given him over the years. "I had to get in though, I just wanted to learn." He reiterated. "What can I say? I'm a data-junkie." he confessed, smiling once more, eyes drifting and staring into the air indulging in his memories.

"So, what did you learn?" asked Thunderwing, trying to return to the subject at hand once more. Thunderwing's head remained still but his optics began to follow Megadeath who had awoken from his short trance and started to walk around him slowly, his evil-looking figure finally disappearing from Thunderwing's view.

"I learned that the scientists were idiots." Answered Megadeath calmly but abruptly, and peering his head over Thunderwing's left shoulder, his hands now clasped firmly from behind on his upper arms. "I learned that they are obsessed with their super-weapons," he continued, his face now appearing over the other shoulder, "obsessed for all the wrong reasons." He relaxed his grip and completed his circumnavigation. "Tell me," he demanded, his hands crossed behind his back which itself was momentarily to Thunderwing, Megadeath choosing to stare into the night sky, "what reasons do you think they, the scientists and their militaries, should have had for creating their super-weapons?"

Thunderwing took a moment to think about this new direction in which the conversation had been turned before answering. "To show the planet what they are capable of." he suggested finally.

"Yes, a warning to our world." concurred Megadeath, turning on the spot to refocus on Thunderwing. "A warning." He agreed once more, a finger raised from a hand that had emerged from behind his back. "What warning might that be, exactly?" He asked finally.

Thunderwing's solemn stare maintained its uninterrupted gaze into Megadeath's own. "If you want to fight us, then this is what you are up against?" Thunderwing offered.

"Hmm." mused Megadeath. "Or as I like to put it:" he smiled, "Remain at peace, for a war with your neighbour will bring forth such terrible devastation the consequences would be unimaginable." He expanded precisely and deliberately, as though quoting a studied text, heavily emphasising the final word. Thunderwing shrugged with indifference to the more formal redefinition. "But what happened, over time?"

"Over time, they went to war anyway." Thunderwing replied.

Megadeath shrugged, his palms upturned. "And what can we learn from that?"

"They are too stupid to see the consequences." suggested Thunderwing rather hastily and with a silent shrug of his own.

"Oh, I don't know about that." frowned Megadeath, his hand on his chin for additional effect. "They could see the devastation they would cause." continued Megadeath, taking a step forward and tapping his central eye. "Replica effects had been demonstrated thoroughly in laboratories and on firing ranges every day for years."

"Okay." Thunderwing corrected himself. "They are too stupid to understand the consequences." He redefined, a subconscious clenching of a fist emphasising his point, more confident Megadeath would agree with him this time.

"Maybe," but the tone of Megadeath's voice told Thunderwing he still did not agree, "but if this level of clarity offers no persuasion to counter war then I'm afraid our 'misunderstanding' race is doomed to self-destruct." He sighed, and explained that as despised for their tactics as they were, not all governors and military generals were stupid. "So if they can see the consequences and, more importantly, they can understand the consequences," he continued, clenching a fist of his own, "then what else can be learned from their wayward logic?"

Thunderwing thought for a moment longer. "They dismiss the consequences?" He offered.

"Go on." replied Megadeath with a nod of approval.

"They were dismissive that the consequences outweighed their needs for war." He clarified. "They were willing to suffer the devastation these weapons cause for the sake of their war."

"Yes!" agreed Megadeath gleefully, clasping his hands together for a moment. "See? Learning can be fun, can't it?" He mocked. "So the threat of devastation was not enough of a threat. Each side still used their best weapons against the other." He walked around Thunderwing's rigid form once more. "So what happened?" he asked peering over his left shoulder again.

"Well, outright victory is rarely achieved without utter decimation of the territory they try to capture." reasoned Thunderwing. "So either stalemate, or victory to one side by means of surrender by the other." he concluded, turning his head slightly to the left allowing Megadeath to return to his gaze once more.

"A fragile peace either which way." admitted Megadeath, lifting his head from Thunderwing's shoulder again. Thunderwing's head shifted slightly to the right but Megadeath peered back over his left shoulder once more. "Peace that needs to be defended from enemies that wish to disturb it." He philosophised. He walked back around to look Thunderwing in the eye once more. "So what did they do to defend their peace?"

"They created more super weapons." sighed Thunderwing, reluctantly.

"Yes!" He cried. "Bigger weapons! More powerful weapons!" He exalted with appropriately ironic hand gestures. "Weapons that this time would surely make people sit up and take notice! Weapons that this time would act as a powerful warning!" He bellowed with all the passion of a religious preacher, his eyes rolling with the exaggerated naivety of each statement. "And what might that warning be?" he asked more calmly.

Thunderwing sighed again. He knew what Megadeath expected to hear. "Remain at peace, for a war with your neighbour will bring forth such terrible devastation the consequences would be unimaginable." repeated Thunderwing, Megadeath practically mouthing repetition himself.

"Exactly!" exubed Megadeath. "And the whole contemptuous cycle begins once more." There was a noticeable pause. "You can see my problem." Megadeath smiled. He could. I could see in Thunderwing's eyes he was indeed able to accept Megadeath's argument, but was so far unable to see where his twisted logic might take them next. "And what can we take from this?" Thunderwing pondered for a moment and made an offering of his own.

"A super-weapon will never act as a deterrent because there will always come a time when that weapon is superseded and the threat to peace returns." concluded Thunderwing, nodding to himself. "No such deterrent is ever sufficient to be called a real deterrent."

"A vicious circle?" asked Megadeath.

"A cycle that cannot be broken." answered Thunderwing confidently.

Megadeath nodded in deliberation of Thunderwing's logic. "But if it could, theoretically, be broken, what could break it?" posed Megadeath.

"It cannot be broken." persisted Thunderwing, as if he felt this were a trap to make him doubt his own confidence. "There will always be a weapon more devastating than the last." he predicted.

Megadeath nodded again. "Yes, maybe, but just what if?" repeated Megadeath.

Thunderwing stood in silence for a moment and focused on the sharp figure in front of him. "Well, then I suppose it would be the Perfect Weapon, the ultimate deterrent."

"Yes!" cried Megadeath with the same jubilant mannerisms I had come to expect every time Thunderwing had managed to give the answer Megadeath wanted to hear. "The ultimate deterrent!" He praised with his hands aloft. Megadeath paused for a moment in respect of his forthcoming statement and its minor deviation from the topic at hand. "Some might say we came close to that with neutron bombs."

Thunderwing grimaced a little. "But neutron bombs, powerful as they were, could be countered by another weapon more powerful still, which in turn can themselves be countered." he replied, reaffirming the conclusions he had drawn from their conversation so far. "They may not exist yet, but one day these weapons will come." He forecast. "The cycle cannot be broken."

"Not by conventional neutron bombs, no." agreed Megadeath, pausing with a short sigh. "But it may come as no surprise to you to know that though outlawed by the Grat Pact, the Neutron programme is still investigated by," he paused again, eyes facing the ceiling momentarily as if looking for inspiration, concerned he must choose the correct word, "by the underhand." A chest panel opened revealing Megadeath's latest (and final) augmentation courtesy of my surgical skills. "Pretty, isn't it?" He laughed silently.

Megadeath's nuclear heart shone obediently through the clear box of tricks that I had felt so much anguish in installing. Thunderwing looked down at the chest compartment in Megadeath's body that now exposed the fiery box of purple haze, flames dancing to the tune of a powerful composer. Captivated by its mesmerising mystique, Megadeath disclosed that Thunderwing was fortunate enough to witness his one of his first public displays of my work. It was true that he had flashed his latest acquisition a couple of times in passing while out in the city, terrorising the neutralists, but it was unlikely that many had the mental capacity to recognise and appreciate the implications from such fleeting passes. But Thunderwing was different.

"A neutron bomb?" To the ill-informed, the box in his chest may have looked like any other excuse for artistic aestheticism. But despite his gruff exterior and painfully obvious career working the dirt for cowardly officers, Thunderwing had a fully functioning CPU of his own. Unlike some of the other weaker minds that dwelt in Stanix today, he knew a neutron bomb when he saw one. This was one reason why perhaps Thunderwing's importance to me was greater than he could know right now. And he knew the symbolism went deeper than the literal; he wanted to know more.

"I prefer to think of it as a life support system." nodded Megadeath to himself.

Thunderwing looked puzzled. It certainly looked like a neutron bomb, not a fuel cell. "You're dying?" he asked stuttering a little in surprise.

Megadeath shook his head. "No, not me." He explained. "It's not my life support system." He told Thunderwing, tapping the clear cover instinctively. "No, it's everyone else that's going to die." He continued casually and emotionlessly. "Wired to kill. It goes live when I go dead." He smirked. "A little insurance policy, so as to speak. Can't have just anyone sneaking up on me and killing me, can I?" He grinned, almost laughing. Almost. "While I'm alive, it supports everyone else's life." He beamed. "Best to keep the status quo, don't you think?"

"So that is your deterrent?" asked Thunderwing. "Whoever kills you dies too?"

"Well, can you see any other way around the situation?" shrugged Megadeath casually. "Or are you ready to make a martyr of yourself and take down everyone in Scyk while you are at it?" He asked rhetorically.

Thunderwing thought for a moment. "Technically, if someone could kill you from long range, the effects of your neutron bomb would dissipate before it reached the assassin." He reasoned. "A neutron bomb deterrent like this does not make you untouchable."

"Maybe," smiled Megadeath, "but you would need a long sniper scope to do that!" he joked, raising his hands, poised as if holding a rifle.

Thunderwing's eyes narrowed at the passive remark, perhaps trying to prove to Megadeath his ability to converse with serious mental parity. "But one day a weapon will counter your bomb. Something bigger, something more powerful." he reminded Megadeath. "It could be detonated some way away and take you out."

This time Megadeath grimaced. "A little extreme, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but according to the cycle," Thunderwing paraphrased, "weapons can only get more extreme." he countered, trying to defend the laws of a cycle he had defined.

"Ah yes, the cycle." beamed Megadeath with mock glee. "It cannot be broken." he smiled, a single finger raised.

"You said so yourself." confirmed Thunderwing.

"No!" he interrupted firmly. "You said it could not be broken." He reminded Thunderwing with a pointed finger. "I said it could only be broken by the Perfect Weapon." Thunderwing offered Megadeath his respectful kudos by means of a slanted nod. "Suppose, hypothetically, the Perfect Weapon could exist, suppose those scientists did actually create it." began Megadeath starting to pace left to right, then back again to stand alongside Thunderwing. "Describe it to me." He ordered, placing his arm back across Thunderwing's shoulder, his eyes focusing just beyond the horizon.

Pause. Clearly Thunderwing was unsure what to make of the question. "What I mean," clarified Megadeath, "is what would make it different from its predecessors, its false messiahs, if you will?"

He thought a little longer. "It is a weapon that could start a war of terrible devastation." he imagined.

Megadeath nodded, but his squinted eyes revealed he was not fully convinced. "Weapons capable of 'terrible devastation' exist today; the Perfect Weapon must surely be more than that." He insisted, tightening his grip on Thunderwing's shoulder.

Thunderwing thought once more. "Something more destructive than has ever been produced before?" he offered finally.

"No!" raged Megadeath, threatening to snap into a viscous frenzy, releasing his arm from Thunderwing by means of a strong shove that almost pushed him to the ground. "You are just re-using the same words! Think!" he commanded, slapping the back of his head. "This is the Perfect Weapon, remember?" He was becoming angry, his hands animated, grasping at the air as if to inspire. This was a real professor and favourite student moment. He had invested time and energy in Thunderwing and wanted duly to be repaid. He could see there was something in him, and in return had something he longed share with him too. But Megadeath would not tell him, and I could not either; he had to work it out for himself. If we could convince him, we could convince anyone. But, strangely, if we could convince him, then we would not have to convince anyone else. "This is the Perfect Weapon." He repeated.

"A weapon that..." he paused, reviewing scenario and trying to think. "A weapon that destroys its enemies." More! Thunderwing stood open-mouthed for a moment. "A weapon destroys all its enemies." He suggested, his head shaking a little, in desperate need for inspiration to fuel his thoughts.

"All its enemies!" regurgitated Megadeath, his hands grabbing Thunderwing by the shoulders again and shaking him slightly, the sincerity of his passion for this lesson plain to see. "And who are all its enemies?"

"Their opponents." replied Thunderwing a little nervously.

"More!" Megadeath shook. "I want all their enemies!" he boomed.

"Their military opponents." More! "Well, all their opponents, both militaristic and political." More! "All their opponents and their sympathisers." Thunderwing added, his head unable to prevent another small shake in subconscious desperation at his inability to stave off Megadeath's relentless persistence of a wider, more complete definition.

"More!" demanded Megadeath again. There was a short pause. The mutual gaze into each other's eyes was steadfast and the pause stretched into a longer one. Perhaps it was time to take a step back. Thunderwing had done well to get this far but was running the risk of being spent. "Okay." he calmed, releasing his hands from Thunderwing, pausing to release some of the tension from his voice. "So far you have defined a weapon that destroys all its opponents and all its sympathisers." he summarised. "But is that really the Perfect Weapon?" he asked rhetorically. "Do you see? How do we know it will not be countered later, by traitors, perhaps, or defectors?" he continued.

"So the Perfect Weapon prevents retaliation?" asked Thunderwing.

"You tell me." retorted Megadeath. "It's your definition."

It was not the answer he had wanted to hear, but I felt somehow it was the answer he should have expected of Megadeath. Thunderwing looked despondent but simultaneously thoughtful too for another moment. He was not prepared to give up just yet. "Okay, so the Perfect Weapon prevents retaliation," stated Thunderwing finally, uttering the same words as a more confident statement rather than in question, "by destroying all its opponents and their sympathisers." Thunderwing added, deliberating for a moment longer before nodding to himself, content he had chosen wisely. "That is the Perfect Weapon." Megadeath smiled a wry smile before, once more, demanding more. The expression on Thunderwing's face dropped in exhaustion. What else was there to say?

"We might be shot in the back by someone that may not even exist yet." pushed Megadeath, desperate to expand the definition further, a watertight definition of utmost completion; this was the Perfect Weapon, after all. "An enemy of the future, perhaps?"

Thunderwing smirked, his personal humiliation at Megadeath's perpetual put-downs momentarily rearing its face over that of seriousness. "Well the only way to sure of destroying all your enemies, now or in the future," he began rather flippantly before pausing. Finally, it hit him hard. It was plain to see in his face as his optics flicked left to right, up then down. Now he understood. He was struggling, but he was finally beginning to comprehend that which had seemed so clear to both Megadeath and me for so long. "The only way to sure of destroying all your enemies, now or in the future," he repeated slowly, more soberly and more deliberately, "is to destroy everyone."

Megadeath smiled as a soothing wave of calm passed over him, his facial relief clear to see. "Everyone," he grinned, replacing his hand across Thunderwing's back, turning him slightly to face the direction he offered with his other hand, palm upturned and casting a view of his empire, "and everything." Our conversation was starting to echo our dispute with Snapdragon, but on an unprecedented scale. We were no longer talking about eliminating the potential threat five or six released suspects may or may not pose, but the potential threat any number of inhabitants of a global population may one day pose, and our own apocalyptic way of dealing with that threat.

"Every last living being on the planet." Thunderwing murmured to himself, possibly as a question or just in realised disbelief.

But Megadeath was still not content. "Ah-ah!" he objected, raising a finger and butting into his thoughts once more. "Remember, the planet itself lives." he observed, referring to popular mythology. "After all, Cybertron gave us life. Maybe Cybertron will give others life?"

Thunderwing paused to take in Megadeath's monumental vision. "So the Perfect Weapon is a weapon that could destroy the planet."

Megadeath smiled; Thunderwing grimaced again. He knew what was coming next. "Remain at peace, for a war with your neighbour will bring forth such terrible devastation the consequences would be unimaginable." concluded Megadeath slowly, adding a short pause for effect. "Truly unimaginable." he growled in a deeper, even more menacing voice. Megadeath indulged in a longer pause, just long enough for Thunderwing to battle with the impossible attempt of defining the unimaginable in his head. "Hypothetically speaking, of course." he smiled softly, lifting his arm from Thunderwing's shoulder and waving it poetically through the air.

Thunderwing nodded slowly. "The hypothetical Perfect Weapon." he concurred, quietly.

"But the cycle cannot be broken, can it?" asked Megadeath with another smile, reminding Thunderwing of his personal conclusion made earlier.

"No." confirmed Thunderwing, shaking his head oh-so slowly.

"Well, not by a neutron bomb anyway." continued Megadeath, corrected himself with the more accurate depiction.

"No." Thunderwing acquiesced once more.

"So, tell me," quizzed Megadeath with exaggerated curiosity, "why would I have a neutron bomb in my chest?" Megadeath looked puzzled by the breakdown in logic. He tapped the clear cover again. By now he needed not explain that the bomb in his agenda stretched far beyond personal retaliation against an assassin that might kill him. "We have been in deadlock for thousands of years because we have no deterrent." He explained, referring to the ever worsening war on Cybertron. "Fighting is no deterrent. There have been countless millions, billions perhaps, of soldiers killed in battle already, yet still they come in their droves. They need something greater to act as a deterrent."

"Neutron bombs?" asked Thunderwing.

"They won't take notice of the threat of a neutron bomb deterrent if they know that no one has the conviction to carry out the threat." Replied Megadeath reluctantly. "And at the moment, because no one will launch a neutron bomb at the enemy such a deterrent is an empty threat."

"So that's where you come in?" assumed Thunderwing. "You want to provide that neutron bomb threat?"

Megadeath shook his head. "There's no point in firing the odd neutron bomb here or there." He conceded. "You might destroy the odd city or two, but that won't end the fighting around the rest of the planet. And you can never rule out a counter threat." He added. "A neutron bomb threat is only a real threat if it is a full global deterrent."

"So you want to provide a global neutron bomb threat?" asked Thunderwing nervously.

Megadeath smiled again. "What do you think?" He asked. Throughout this conversation, this lecture almost, Thunderwing had been pushed for his thoughts and opinions. But by now, Thunderwing clearly did not know what to think. He needed more coaxing. "Let's just think about that for a moment. What would I need for a global neutron bomb threat?"

Thunderwing shrugged. "Neutron bombs." He suggested, stating the obvious.

Megadeath nodded. "Yes, but how many do you reckon?" He asked. "Perhaps three to take out a city?" He speculated. "Four or five, you say?" He asked no one in particular. "Let's double that to be on the safe side, just in case a few don't detonate." His head tipped back with mock mental exercise. "Yes a nice round ten should do it." His facial expression offered fake concern. "You good with ten?" He asked. Thunderwing shrugged; he did not really have any idea. "Okay, ten bombs per city, say, and on average about twenty cities per state," he totted, waving his fingers purposelessly, "And remember, we're talking about a fair number of states to wipe out here." He underestimated with deliberate vagueness. There must have been a thousand Autobot states on the planet I could have named there and then and another ten thousand I could not. "That's a lot of bombs." observed Megadeath mockingly. He looked around the room for inspiration and grimaced. "'Don't really have the space to hide that many neutron bombs; I think even Straxus would notice!" he laughed. "Besides, one day someone might invent a bigger, more powerful bomb, rendering my threat yesterday's technology." he speculated, reminding Thunderwing of the cycle. "No." He convinced himself, "I don't think I want to provide a neutron bomb threat, global or otherwise." He finished. Thunderwing's eyes involuntarily glanced down towards the seductive flames in Megadeath's chest. Megadeath shrugged. "Okay, maybe the odd one might be useful for smaller scale operations, but a global neutron bomb threat is simply not feasible."

"Maybe I underestimated you, Thunderwing." I commented, seamlessly interrupting. "I don't want to kill everyone in Stanix!" I explained. "And I certainly don't want to destroy every city on Cybertron! I want to stop this war and I have done so ever since day one." I continued, explaining that Megadeath was always supposed to be the deterrent to end the war.

"But if I am to be this deterrent and a single neutron bomb is not a deterrent, then I ask you again, why would I have one in my chest?" asked Megadeath once more.

"You wouldn't." Thunderwing answered logically taking another look at the burning flames inside.

Megadeath shrugged. "So maybe I haven't." He offered equally logically.

Thunderwing's mouth opened for moment trying to ingest the cryptic information Megadeath had offered him before shutting again. "But you said..." he began finally.

"No!" laughed Megadeath, wagging a finger again. "You said it was a neutron bomb." he smiled, gently poking him in the chest. "I never said anything of sort!" Megadeath smiled. "I just said it was a bomb of some non-description." Thunderwing shook his head a little. For all the warnings derived from Megadeath's reputation, once again he had been guilty of putting his own words into Megadeath's mouth. "Maybe there is more to this light show than meets the eye." He suggested. "Maybe," he continued in a more grave voice, his eyes flicking left to right with mock concern for secrecy, "the impossible isn't as impossible as you thought?" he whispered.

Clearly Thunderwing did not know what to think. "But..." he stammered finally.

Megadeath had picked up a small metallic ring that had been lying amongst the debris of the derelict room. Holding it to Thunderwing's face, he twisted it until it snapped and partially straightened. "Ever heard of the theory of a NISCEM pulse?" asked Megadeath, turning towards the view once more, tossing the metaphor aside and stepping forward, resting a hand on the railing and looking out over the evening sky.

"The Accident?" asked Thunderwing.

"Precisely." he answered, turning back to face his would-be protИgИ. "A neutron-induced, super-critical electromagnetic pulse." Megadeath expanded. "The Accident was the result of a super-critical chain reaction, a neutron bomb gone wrong, if you will, spawning a NISCEM pulse, a self-powered electromagnetic pulse wave indiscriminately taking out every last microchip in its path." He explained. "Think of it as a wall of death that kills more than ninety-nine percent of living beings, everyone except those with sufficient shielding."

"The lucky few." suggested Thunderwing.

Megadeath frowned, as if ignoring this flippant remark. "The problem was that technically it was not truly self-sustainable and died out after a thousand miles or so." He shrugged as if this accidental death of millions of lives in and around Grat was something of an anti-climax. "Nevertheless, The Accident was like ten or even twenty neutron bombs going off at once and could have been so much more. The potential was there. Do you know what would have happened if this wave," he asked, demonstrating with his hands parting and fingers waving gently, "did not die out? What if it were to propagate around the planet and collide with itself?" each hand having completed a semi-circular movement until they met once more. Thunderwing said nothing. "Bang!" boomed Megadeath. "A planetary meltdown!" His hands blew outwards to emphasise his point. "Not so lucky now, are they?" growled Megadeath, his face as serious as ever. "When I found out about the theoretical strength of a true, fully self-sustainable NISCEM pulse, I shared a dream."

"A nightmare." dared Thunderwing.

"No!" Megadeath objected fiercely. "A dream!" he spat. "Don't you understand?" He demanded angrily. "Have you learned nothing?" Megadeath turned around once more, his clenched fist landing heavily on the railing by the window with a denting thud. "The dream was of peace, not death." he continued more calmly, his eyes focused on the sky once more. "A dream that could exist only under the threat of the nightmare, under the threat of the Perfect Weapon - a fully developed NISCEM bomb that could destroy the planet!" he finished turning back again.

"But that could not happen - not deliberately." claimed Thunderwing. "I don't know a great deal about neutron bombs but I do know that according to..."

"You think you know more than someone who has researched the subject?" I interrupted. "Is that what you are saying?" Thunderwing paused before conceding the point with a shrug. And indeed, my point was a valid one. Thunderwing's knowledge of neutron bombs and NISCEM theory was limited to news extracts and popular rumour. Megadeath and I, on the other hand, had spent millennia locked away in our research laboratories. "What do you think I've been working on here in Stanix for the past hundred thousand years?" I snapped with irony. "Glow in the dark metallic paint?"

"I just understood that it was impossible." he shrugged again. "That's all."

"Maybe you understand less than you think you understand." patronised Megadeath. Thunderwing nodded reluctantly, feeling foolish. "Neutron bombs and NISCEM theory are a complex science." he smiled, walking back over and offering an equally patronising gesture of friendship. "I wouldn't expect you to understand." He mocked. "To live like a god, one has to think like a god." He finished, tapping his powerful, central eye again. "And to think like a god requires thought on a higher plane, an all-seeing plane if you will."

"Even I had trouble with it." I admitted, my hand pressed against my chest emphasising the point. "And even once I'd grasped it, I could hardly say, 'Hey, here I am - I've got the bomb - weapons down or I'll kill us all!' could I?" I laughed. Thunderwing was not laughing; his eyes narrow a little in distrust. Grennis, my colleague all those years ago in Taggon, was right. Getting hold of basic neutron bomb technology was simple for a mind like mine with a hundred thousand years or so of willing, undivided attention at his disposal. The real stumbling block was credibility to develop a practical deployment of NISCEM technology and the will to use them. "No one would believe me. A threat without the conviction to carry it out is an empty threat. So who has the conviction to give the threat credibility? Not me, not this self-promoted pacifist." I shrugged. "But I'm not proud. I know when I need help, and I knew I needed a partner. But who could I give this opportunity to?" I asked. "Optimus Prime? Lord Straxus? They live for war. Their ideals are stupid, not insane." I explained. "I needed someone insane, not stupid."

Thunderwing had looked increasingly uneasy with my heartfelt confession, surprised by my frank reference to Megadeath's psychological well-being. "Megadeath?" He asked nervously, almost a whisper, almost like he was scared Megadeath might hear him talking about him, even though his presence was blatant. I nodded. As I had always maintained, reputation was key to the plan. I had no desire to hurt, maim, kill or massacre, and I could certainly never personally 'press the button' to kill off an entire race and the planet on which they dwelt. It went against everything I stood for. But without the conviction to press that button, the threat was nothing. I could make no impact alone.

But as clear as it was that I could never murder anyone, it was equally clear that Megadeath had no problems in doing so. His violent psyche, once bolstered by confidence-inducing narcotics of the past, but now operating on such a level on its own, had shown he was defiant and blood-thirsty enough. He had frequently killed on a whim, not just Autobot soldiers, but Decepticons and civilians too, as well as drones, practically anything and everything, and indeed, he might just be capable of destroying every last active transistor on the planet and even the planet itself, should it take his fancy. Was Megadeath really that crazy? Ask Battletrap or Sinnertwin, or any of the others and they would say so with absolute certainty.

For thousands of years, I had groomed Megadeath for this role, the role of the ultimate tyrannical peacemaker. For years he had instilled fear in the civilians of Stanix. A kill there, a public execution there, perhaps he would let slip the words 'neutron' and 'bomb' from time to time, then let his mysticism do the rest. He was an enigma, a myth that was heard but not seen. He had absorbed the fears of his empire and thrown them back at the population amplified ten-fold. He had forced his minions to live the lives above and beyond god-fearers. To them, Megadeath was the more than god; he was the anti-god, the devil himself and had absolute power over all. But Stanix was not Cybertron. Stanix was but one state on the planet and a small state at that.

"Alas," cried Megadeath melodramatically, an arm outstretched and clasped to a support pole, swinging himself around for added effect, "my psychological profile is all too well-known." he beamed with pride. "But what is one to do when burdened by one's own dogged reputation?" he smiled, a palm pressed lightly yet firmly to his chest.

I could see Thunderwing mulling it over but he did not know what to make of it all. He tried to read Megadeath. "So you're saying you could actually destroy Cybertron?" he asked, finally.

Megadeath stood still for a moment before allowing a slight shake of the head to escape. "No," he laughed again; as if Thunderwing had still to learn about putting words in his mouth, "you're saying I could destroy Cybertron." He walked back over to Thunderwing, bemused by his cryptic logic, and placed a comforting hand back across his shoulder. "I ask you again:" he continued, "Do you trust me?" He laughed. "All you need is the technology," Megadeath explained trivially pressing his hand up against the bomb in his chest briefly, "and the desire." He concluded. "Now I have them both." He smiled. By 'desire', he meant the twisted, psychotic temprement to annihilate the planet, as Thunderwing's eyes had silently replied.

"Think about it." He commanded trying to emulate the imaginary voice with the same desire Thunderwing's eyes had just defined. "Peace through tyranny." He growled tapping his burning chest, his face pressed up close to Thunderwing's audio receptors. "You said so yourself," continued Megadeath, "that the Perfect Weapon cannot be countered." He reminded Thunderwing. "The Perfect Weapon prevents retaliation because there is neither anyone nor anything left to fight back. Therefore, the Perfect Weapon, along with the conviction to use it, dictates anything it desires. The Perfect Weapon can dictate peace." He added. "And I am it."

I could see in Thunderwing's eyes that he felt Megadeath was bluffing as they turned to face Megadeath's own. He was searching within himself for the opportunity to bury this twisted mind once and for all. Maybe that box of tricks was a bomb, which would therefore pose a problem in killing him; problematic, but not impossible. Perhaps he was to be a martyr after all. But for the moment, with no weapon to hand, he could ill-afford the luxury of testing Megadeath and his so-called conviction. His time would come, but for now he was, like me, under Megadeath's control, but unlike me, denied himself the comfort of such security.

But as clear as it was that Thunderwing felt this was a bluff, it was equally clear that one way or another, Megadeath was bent on proving this was no bluff. "You still don't trust me, do you?" asked Megadeath with a disappointed shake of the head. "After all we've been through together." He sobbed ironically, releasing Thunderwing from his grip. He watched as Megadeath walked over to a case on the far side of the room and unlocked it. From inside he removed a plasma-drive blaster pistol and walked back to Thunderwing. "Well, I suppose there is just one thing for it." he mused with disappointment and raised the pistol. Thunderwing's eyes closed bracing themselves for the onslaught. Instinct may have told him to run, but he was a warrior and pride told him to accept his fate, albeit with his eyes powered down to avoid seeing the killing blow itself.

The weapon was heard to prime itself with an audible hum. "Look." demanded Megadeath, a plasmatic hue also emanating from one of the lasers mounted on his forearms in addition to the pistol he held in his other hand. "Do you want this thing or not?" He asked, the annoyance in his voice clear. Thunderwing's eyes opened. The pistol was not pointed at him, but instead was being offered. Megadeath shook his hand a little, waving the weapon at him drawing his attention to the unlikely object. "Take it."

I could see Thunderwing was once more trying to make sense of the situation. Megadeath was unpredictable at best, but having accepted his impending execution, a weapon being offered to him was the last thing he expected to see. Slowly, he took the pistol from the psychotic General. "See?" asked Megadeath. "I told you that you can kill me." referred Megadeath to the deal made earlier. "Now it's a fair fight." He smiled, pointing his primed forearm laser at Thunderwing.

Thunderwing looked down at the pistol in his hands. It looked like a pistol, it felt like a pistol, everything associated with it seemed to be in good order. Was Megadeath really offering a duel, a chance to finish the job he had been sent to do? What was the catch this time? He could not see it and Thunderwing slowly raised his hand and pointed the pistol at Megadeath's face. "That's better." Megadeath smiled, and pointed the green weapon on his own arm to the face of Thunderwing.

Their arms remained outstretched, their respective eyes focusing on their opponent's face. Thunderwing looked serious, Megadeath almost too casual. But I was in no position to intervene; this was as much of a test for Megadeath as it was for Thunderwing. As intense as the encounter was, I could feel nothing for myself. Megadeath had demanded once more, and once more I had delivered. I could offer nothing short of absolute attention and he absorbed the opportunity to strengthen his resolve over me. Next came the trademark catch, a reminder of guilt. "I just hope you can live with the knowledge you killed everyone." began Megadeath, before breaking into laughter acknowledging the paradox regarding Thunderwing's would-be martyrdom. "Well, you know what I mean." The two remained in deadlock.

The amusement was lost on Thunderwing. He was still trying to analyse the scenario. Ask anyone and the words 'sense' and 'Megadeath' never appear together. Psychopathic, insane, lunatic and evil are the words Thunderwing would have heard in conjunction with Megadeath in all his dealings up until now. So claimed his reputation, he was responsible for Stanix falling into the state of squalor it now found itself it. He had killed countless troops, on both sides, that was well-documented and apparently, uncontested by Megadeath himself

But why? Did he really murder all those civilians and advisors for fun? And what of the thousands of soldiers killed in the Bana assault fiasco he was still rumoured to have orchestrated? Was he really that twisted? Was he really so evil? Even for a Decepticon, it was hard to swallow. Or was there a bigger picture? If so, was this it? Thunderwing eyes revealed he was slowly coming around to thinking there may well have been more to this genocide than his reputation could reveal. Perhaps this all really was just a means to an end, to show the planet he was serious and what he was capable of. Perhaps he was really offering the ultimate deterrent. Or, on the other hand, perhaps he was simply insane? Perhaps he was simply a psychopathic megalomaniac who revelled in torture, torment, death and devastation? He never showed remorse or regret. But then again, to do so would be to show weakness and with a threat based on credibility it was reasonable to deny oneself exposure of such a weakness, should it exist.

Reputation may have told him Megadeath was beyond reason, but throughout their conversation, I saw Thunderwing had been drawn into Megadeath's hypnotic logic and counter-logic. Megadeath claimed he wanted peace, and set about accomplishing his goal by the unquantifiable threat of absolute annihilation. Crude, certainly, excessive, perhaps; but what was so illogical about that? The evidence showed that in person, though simultaneously both rational and extreme, he was indeed capable of logic, so perhaps it was time to give logic a try?

Logically, if Megadeath wanted Thunderwing dead, he would have been killed by now. Equally logically, if Megadeath wanted Thunderwing to kill him, he would not have gone to the trouble of explaining he was booby-trapped, rigged with a bomb regardless of whether it was a small-scale fragmentation grenade or (so he claimed) a planet-ending super weapon. If Megadeath wanted them both dead, then was his threat genuine? So he had claimed, killing himself would take out Thunderwing and the rest of Cybertron anyway, why not just kill himself if he wanted rid of the planet? Logically the scenario in which Thunderwing found himself was illogical unless Megadeath intended them both to live. Logically, this was a test. Thunderwing lowered his weapon.

"No?" asked Megadeath. "Not got it in you? Oh well," he sighed, "I suppose someone has to end this." He announced, as if trying to interrupt the millions of thoughts buzzing through Thunderwing's head. Megadeath lowered his weapon from Thunderwing's eye-level, and reversed the direction of his arm, pointing his laser directly at his own chest, the barrel resting against the translucent material separating his hand from a nuclear meltdown and an NISCEM explosion. The look on his face was enough for Thunderwing to understand the question that remained unasked.

Megadeath's weapon began to charge once more. The humming intensified. The glow grew stronger with each agonising micro-second. Quite when the charge would complete perhaps only Megadeath knew, but what might follow threatened very much to be in the public domain. Perhaps a younger, less refined Megadeath might have allowed his arm to tremble, but he was steadfast, the grin upon his face more serious than ever. Thunderwing's eyes submit; how could he take that chance?

Almost as if he knew how close the weapon was to going off, Thunderwing launched himself at Megadeath, grabbing his laser-equipped arm and forcing it away from his chest. The blast burst into Thunderwing's arm, a clean shot that burned through and out the other side. But Thunderwing never flinched, instead he held the pain fast, just as he held Megadeath's arm pointing away from the burning fires of his chest.

But Megadeath, with his arms augmented with additional strength was easily able to counter the grip of Thunderwing's broken arm. Straining, Thunderwing dropped his pistol and he grabbed Megadeath's arm with his other hand too, forcing it away from aiming at himself again. But Megadeath simply smiled, and pointed his free arm and the laser mounted upon it to his own head. This time there was no humming. This time Megadeath chose not to deploy. "Now, do you trust me?" asked Megadeath for a final time.

Educated, militaristic and with a head for subtlety, Thunderwing would do to serve Megadeath well. He would indeed go far at the helm of the revolution. Megadeath's deterrent had worked; his warning of 'unimaginable' consequences had been heeded. Not only would he remain at peace with Megadeath, but the assassin once charged with killing him now stood actively to defend him.

As I stood obediently in Megadeath's shadow, I felt Thunderwing's eyes pierce through Megadeath's and into my own. For Megadeath to have this effect on a soldier of such was proof that Megadeath was complete, and Thunderwing knew it. I shrugged. What else was there to say? I had created this scenario. I had spent over one hundred thousand years working towards this very moment. "Welcome to Stanix." I smiled.

--

CHAPTER 18 Against The Wind

On the surface, until Thunderwing arrived it appeared we had been fighting a losing battle. No one wanted to fight for Megadeath; they had just come from the battlefields, after all, trying to escape that meaningless way of life. Besides, Megadeath was a lunatic, who might just as easily massacre his own troops after battle as congratulate them. They were distrustful and confused, but most of all they were scared. They did not really know what they were scared of, but something made them uneasy. Maybe it was simply the unpredictable will of Megadeath.

With this unease came chaos. Anarchy and resentment had bred a society of fear. No one was in control, not Megadeath that was for sure. He sat in Fort Syck day-in, day-out, waiting and watching 'his' empire collapse. After thousands of years, it had fallen as if victim of war rather than stoic apathy. Civilian morale had sunk to an all-time low.

And with this depression came hate for Megadeath. Megadeath was as despised by his citizens as much as he was by me. My hatred for Megadeath rivalled my hatred for Shockwave, Megatron, Optimus Prime and all the others. Through our unholy union I had grown ever more in hatred for him, and felt the hatred of others for this hideous creature that stood for the slaughter of morality.

And with this hate came anger at Megadeath. For all his iron-fisted libertarianism, he was responsible for their homes and adopted homes descending into chaos. And for the former soldiers, their anger would undoubtedly force them full-circle. Where once they fought with anger at the Autobots, or anger at the Decepticons, they fought no more. But with their growing anger at Megadeath they could unite with a common purpose.

From out of this lawlessness, it was time to emerge a leader, someone to take Stanix by the throat and show them the way, a depiction of the very living god of which Megadeath had foretold. Not me, of course, I was just a nothing, a nobody with the stature so far unsuited to life in the public eye. Besides, I had a full time job with Megadeath. So what about Megadeath himself? Was he the one to breathe life back into his dead empire? He was seen as a psychopath, completely insane. His decisions were based on the whim of his weapons. Megadeath was unsuitable to govern Stanix, that much was clear in the thoughts of those around him and from afar. He was not even suitable to command his troops, or indeed any troops.

He may have given up his hypnotic cocktails of exotic fuels, but his self-confessed addiction to violence and psychotic behaviour made him, without doubt of his soldiers, the most insane General in the Decepticon ranks, or even in the history of Decepticon ranks. Sometimes he would just sit there for days, like he was trying to prove his stubbornness, like he had something - anything - left to prove. His deliberately chosen stances designed to test, taunt and provoke a reaction, building on his air of mysticism. What was going on in that head of his? Why would he fall into these week-long trances? When I first met him I felt he was over-trying. But now, was he still over-trying with his front, or was this finally for real? The fact that even I could no longer separate fact from fiction spoke volumes for his mental evolution.

It was as if he knew of the inkling of doubt and the questions that were being asked. I knew better than to ask them myself though. What happened to those that did was enough to keep the questions out of his face, but floating in the air where they belonged, stirring the waves of rumour, refuelling the legend. "You still have priority message from Polyhex." A foolish officer had once observed some time ago, reminding him of a flashing light on his console that Megadeath had left unattended for more than a week. He did not need to explain that the Autobots were close to taking neighbouring Taggon. He did not need to explain that our stockpiled troops were now finally recognised as official units that Megatron needed to push back this Autobot threat. He did not even need to explain these were direct orders from Lord Straxus himself. The question was enough and Bang! Up stood Megadeath from nearly fourteen days of knuckle-clenched hibernation; two weeks of silent seizures, mad whisperings of inaudible randomness; two weeks of behaviour that might befit only those that reside the asylum of insanity; two weeks of being Megadeath.

The officer paid with his life, of course. With a quick triple-shot from a then forearm-mounted laser into his face, and a full-on punch to the head later, his cranium was rolling the length of the grim floor of the command room. The ten or so others in the room knew this was not the time to be where they were, and in the time it took the few that could escape to do so, he had shot dead the remainder of his 'advisory' team. This behaviour of Megadeath's was the rule and not the exception; hardly leadership material.

But that was never my ambition for Megadeath. He was not supposed to be some fanciful leader of robots in battle. He was never going to challenge Megatron or Lord Straxus for control of the Decepticons, nor Optimus Prime for the Autobots. Megadeath was nothing more than the physical embodiment of the inevitable stalemate of our apocalyptic war. Our war had stretched countless millennia showing no signs of even slowing, let alone stopping, and in its present guise, threatening to continue for thousands, perhaps millions more years. And Megadeath was nothing more than the tool to bring about the close of this terrible blight on our planet's history and society through the credible threat of a planetary meltdown.

During his complex mood swings, I found it impossible to work. Amongst other things, the air of tension, the stifling suspense and his eerie nature of doing the unexpected made the atmosphere impossible. He was Megadeath, as he kept reminding everyone. My mind became so warped by his behaviour that I had a tendency to switch off and go into a sympathetic reclusive dormant mode such was his twisted influence upon me; I worked until he went publicly mad, whereupon I would take a break from my research. So no, Megadeath was not the natural leader we longed for. Anyway, he had an altogether different role to play. Megadeath was the bait, and Thunderwing had taken it.

Thunderwing now took over from me; in a way he had become me, doing the job I had longed to do but lacked the public stature to undertake. My lack of confidence when it came to public speaking had still not been overcome. Even Megadeath struggled to converse unless on a more modest scale, perhaps to groups led by Shackle, Aftershock or others. And if he found it hard enough to draft the support of his initial handful of troops upon taking over from Krok, then I could never stand up in front of a million troops and force them to swear allegiance to Megadeath on the back of his threat to detonate the planet. Thunderwing, however, could do so. Those that would dismiss our incoherent babbling would be more convinced by Thunderwing's more charismatic charm. He could and he did. He took the kindling of the anxiety of Megadeath and fanned the flames into a raging inferno of equal parts hatred and fear.

Prior to the outbreak of the war, Lord Thunderwing (as he was known back then) had lived life as a warlord, a minor but ranked aristocrat. He had owned, governed and commanded a small region of Decepticon-annexed land, a natural leader and outspoken authoritarian. His empire may not have stretched far and his subjects may have been of little volume or value, but his stature was assured. It was this assurance that had first attracted us to Thunderwing and his potential to lead. According to his file, he had been ejected from regional dictatorship by Razorclaw, and was drafted into Shockwave's command for Special Operations. His ruthless mean streak and cutting-edge drive made him perfect for Shockwave and Razorclaw and in all his designated missions he appended to his reputation, ironic in making him iconic to Megadeath's realm.

Thunderwing teamed up with Shackle and their propaganda was so successful it seemed that anyone drifting into Stanix did so never to return. Those that chose not to accept the truths as Thunderwing proclaimed suffered an ending I could neither inflict nor condone. Can the ends ever justify the means? I knew that it would be by these methods the ends would arrive. I was not comfortable with the slaying of the innocent and the cross-faction influx of wayward veterans disillusioned by broken promises of victory by their respective commanders. But I was equally uncomfortable doing nothing. Megadeath and I were merely accelerating the end of this despicable war which had raged for more than one hundred thousand years, showing no sign of ending.

How did we achieve this? It was easy, so Thunderwing told me. "All we need to do is get some law - loyal law - on our side, and their anger will follow." He explained as if that were as trivial as putting up advertising. Indeed, through posters, video, and other media, it was not hard to convince even more disillusioned soldiers of all factions to come to the Promised Land by strategic placement of this persuasive propaganda all over Stanix and its borders. Thunderwing was quick to sort through the recruits and his fear was more widespread than ever. How to convince others of his own steadfast belief in his new cause was up to him, and he did so with a hard-hitting regime of strict martial rule and brutal economics that he had instilled across Stanix, claiming this was the only way to guarantee victory.

Through Thunderwing, the angry aggression and hatred felt by our troops could be channelled elsewhere. He knew they could not fight Megadeath and win. Nobody could fight Megadeath and win. He was invincible. Megadeath was essential for personal survival and there was nothing anyone could do about it. All they could do was protect him. And the knowledge and understanding that it was their requirement, their duty almost, to protect and serve a master they despised so greatly amplified their anger further.

The Autobots, Decepticons and Neutralists in Stanix were united once more bounded by a common sense of hatred, anger and forced loyalty. The moral-sapped soldiers of Straxus and Optimus Prime had nothing on our troops. Where their soldiers lacked direction, the raw passion Megadeath had induced gave Thunderwing the motivated force we needed, an emotive force that was mentally stronger that any Autobot or Decepticon on the Front Line.

Thunderwing perpetually stressed the importance of Megadeath and his personal survival. Whether it was through the explanation of his maniacal NISCEM pulse bomb scheme, through appealing to their traditional sense of loyalty to authority, or thorough outright lies, unhealthy propaganda to stir the emotions of fear, he was convincing in his belief that there would come a time when our way of life would be threatened. Not just a war between the Autobots and the Decepticons, but a war between Megadeath and the rest of Cybertron, a war that only Megadeath could win, a war whose victory would be hollow. And in their cocooned state of physical and mental salvation in Stanix, it was an argument with which many could acquiesce.

It took more than a fierce word, of course, to convince some. While his methods would work on most, he was equally adept in using methods involving torture, and mental and energon deprivation, just when it seemed the potential force of discontent might mount a rebellion, Thunderwing would find the ringleaders and give them the low-down. He would explain to those of a mental capacity capable of ingesting the shock of his words about Megadeath and his position of absolute power. Knowing this lunatic was in control of a bomb to destroy Cybertron quickly converted the hoards of potential rebels into legions of loyal troops, in much the same way as Thunderwing had changed from hardened assassin to governmental figurehead. They had to protect Megadeath from those that might oppose him, those that might risk triggering this unholy weapon. They, in turn, convinced others and through the magic of time, the legend grew.

The power of reputation was paying off. Even those that knew nothing of his NISCEM scheme prior to arriving in Stanix were aware of his psychotic temprement. And soon even those that did not have the mental capacity to grasp the basic concept of his power, could be convinced simply by the look of terror and mortal dread in the eyes of those that could. And like the all-seeing eye in Megadeath's skull, soon everyone in Stanix were aware of and believed in the power of the flames that burned within Megadeath. And, so we intended, one day the same would be true of everyone on Cybertron.

Of course, every so often he would stumble across someone of more famed repute, someone who might deserve to understand first-hand the reasons for Thunderwing's self-deployment in Stanix, someone who could understand the threat at a level Thunderwing himself could comprehend. In the majority of these cases it was left to Thunderwing to convince them of our power, but occasionally Megadeath would put in an appearance. But Megadeath was unpredictable, so Thunderwing saw, and so dictated his power. He could hardly mingle with the troops. Besides, everyone already knew he was insane, the product of thousands of years of psychological self-abuse. Every once in a while, though, it paid to remind his subordinates his temprement was still poised on a knife-edge. Perhaps he would go back to culling a group of non-believers again, or order the agonising torture of the heretic.

Stanix was transformed. Thunderwing had taken the reigns of a derelict society so gripped with fear and disheartenment and whipped a generous dosage of fear of his own into them. Thousands of troops had been amalgamated at a rate increasing by the day. Most did not understand why they were loyal to Thunderwing other than that it was for their own well-being. But to see the fear in their eyes was enough to make my long road worthwhile. For every spark of life that I had allowed Megadeath to destroy, there were now ten lives saved from the torment of futility of war. And soon that ten would surely be a hundred, then a thousand, and I could finally convince myself the ends had indeed justified the means.

They had come to Stanix in their droves. Here they could live under Thunderwing and his regime. Here they could live instead of being marched to their deaths by Field Commanders so ignorantly charged full of misplaced ideological of warfare. Here they could live under a living god. Here they could live.

In Thunderwing's arrival came the living god we had foretold. So full of belief for the cause was he, that he had absorbed our power and amplified Megadeath's resolve over our citizens beyond measure. Through the redirection of our power and instilling the will of our troops to stop fighting each other and to stand united against the threat of Megadeath, or rather the threat anyone else might pose to Megadeath, he could bring an end to the whole Cybertronian war.

So despite enduring mental and physical agony in getting where I was today, I had now all-but achieved my goals. Stanix may well have just been the beginning, but it was truly the beginning of the end. Expendable, ultimately, long after I was gone Megadeath and his legacy could continue. It was like my life was complete. The coup of stealing Thunderwing from under the command of Shockwave, was simply a bonus for me, having something that once was his, but now was mine. I still hated Shockwave for his involvement in the Accident in Grat, ironic given it was his funding of neutron bomb technology that had sparked a flash of personal inspiration.

Megadeath sat at the end of the command room in his favourite throne, a dilapidated seat that sported neither arm nor back rests. It was no longer fastened securely to the floor, but shifted uneasily on rusted stilts. It wobbled under the uneven weight it tried to support via damaged legs of differing lengths. It was befitting of a throne in Stanix.

It was Megadeath's favourite throne because of the view, a number of stories up above the ground giving him the view of his Empire. There were little or no active monitors to display video feed of the region. The one-time windows through which one might chance to catch a passing glimpse of the outside world had long since cracked into a frosted barrier of non-disclosure. There was, however, a hole, an enormous gaping hole where an entire wall had recently collapsed. From the outside the building looked like a huge set of shelves, each level containing nothing but debris, save the top shelf reserved by order of hierarchy. If you knew where to find him, you could see him for miles, seeing for miles. If he was not in one of the laboratories tinkering with things I had helped him tinker with, then he was here on his favourite throne.

"We found another one." Thunderwing dared to interrupt, having silently entered the derelict room. Thunderwing was instrumental now, and they both knew it. Thunderwing had proved his worth. He could get away with entrances like this. Megadeath rose from his throne, but remained facing his world, his hands crossed behind his back. I had acknowledged his entry, but knew this was a matter for the two of them to discuss. Thunderwing was number two now. I stood quietly, gazing outside. They talked and I listened.

Megadeath sighed. "Where?" he asked, without turning to face his advisor, continuing to survey his estate.

"Devan." answered Thunderwing.

His crossed arms unfolded and rested on his hips. "Who?" asked Megadeath, even though he probably would not have heard of him.

"Eclipse." replied Thunderwing, revealing a name unknown to me. "He's an assassin." he informed with a smirk. "And not a very good one by the looks of things."

Megadeath smiled. "In your assessment," he began, "is there any chance of saving him?"

"In my opinion, he is beyond redemption." answered Thunderwing. There was no chance for his conversion or acceptance into the fold. Had Eclipse been of some use, had he been detained and brought into Scyk then perhaps he could be spared in exchange for a lifetime of service like Thunderwing. But he had not and was not, so could not. "What would you like me to do with him?"

Soldiers that arrived in Stanix under the assumption they were to fight with an army only to be forced into allegiance with a psychopath were sometimes unable to make this commitment. They would usually be executed where they stood. But if identified, special cases would be subject to a more brutal punishment in order to serve as a warning, a warning that went some way to invoke images of the unimaginable.

"String him." As ever, Megadeath's decision was typically swift and merciless.

Thunderwing exited what remained of the room, leaving Megadeath alone once more. I left him content in the insanity of his own fantasy world, gazing over whatever it was occupying his mind and walked over to the console that started to flash at me. I clicked a button and the message it had been so eager to tell me appeared onscreen.

It was from Brainstorm. I smiled, my optics widening. How did he do it? How on Cybertron did he find me? How did he know where I was? It must have taken forever for him to track me down. No, perhaps not forever, perhaps just one hundred thousand years or so. I never even told him I had quit Milatech and signed on as a grunt on the Front Line, a move he surely could never have foreseen. Still, Brainstorm had his ways of finding things out; all he needed to do was to look for Megadeath and he would find me.

My smile of curiosity grew wider. Then there the security issues. He had managed to bypass umpteen levels to get this electronic message delivered. It was cloaked by the secret, simple yet effective encryption protocol we had jointly developed in our spare time as students, the Headstorm protocol as we had affectionately called it. It could only be read me. Not even Megadeath should have access to this. Primus knows how he got it to me, but, again, if there was someone capable of it, then it was Brainstorm.

I stood with my finger hovering over the button to open the file, considering its contents without actually pressing the button. What might it contain? It had been tens of tens of thousands of years since we had broken contact. Back then we could not conceive anything to break our friendship, certainly not something as trivial as your inherent desire to see him and his entire faction dead. But somewhere between the winding down of my militaristic duties and the start of Megadeath's systematic destruction of Stanix, communication with the real world had become almost lost. Almost.

My focus had shifted to the floor and my hand returned subconsciously to my side. I shook my mind clear for moment and looked up at the screen, continuing to remind me of the presence of unread mail for Headwind. "Headwind." I muttered to myself. That was a name I had not heard in a long time, probably since Grennis last spoke to me on my departure from Milatech all those years ago in Taggon, or perhaps during his unfortunate reunion with me on the edge of the Verdana Chasm. "Headwind." I repeated, slowly shaking my head again until a multitude of disused monitors came into my peripheral vision on the far side of the room, shining with the reflected light from outside like a wall of mirrors.

They drew me closer and I turned to face the wall of blackened and cracked glass floating upon a sea of broken LEDs. Lifting an armed arm to my face I saw my mirrored form trace the outline of my mutated head. If at times it had been difficult to see my true self, now it was almost impossible. I looked at the two green lasers mounted upon my forearms and clenched my spined fists, each used in anger more times than I could remember, or even cared to. I ignored the purple glow emanating from my chest, refracting into a million colours as the spectrum of light bent through the chipped glass, home to a dream of unilateral peace in accordance to my rule, Megadeath's rule. I ignored the nuclear flames burning within my body fuelling my craving for satisfaction of my now uncontrollable addiction to unpredictable outbursts of emotional violence. I ignored the bright reflection of my thick red armour plating I had developed for my self-augmented additional tank mode and aircraft modifications. Instead I stared deep into my mind's eye, beyond even the three eyes staring back at me.

Maybe the winds of rumour had blown back to Iacon and beyond, speaking of outrageous claims of a planet held to ransom by a psychotic sociopath. Maybe even Brainstorm had heard. After all, it was he and Chromedome that had invented the name Megadeath, one of many ironic nods towards my pacifism now reversed through backstabbing hypocrisy. But how could they have known they had begot this fantastic monster? Memories of the weak student, bullied for his steadfast drive for peace, had themselves been driven away and replaced by a canon with the same determination, but with methods so far removed from reality it was hypocritical to call it peacemaking. I wanted to tell him, truly I did. I wanted to open up to the only friend I could ever trust. I wanted him to revel in my dream. I wanted to believe he would accept my methods, as twisted and evil as they may appear on the outside, were just that. They were on the outside.

How many had I killed over the years in my quest for peace though? A thousand? Ten thousand? I looked at the screen on my arm, but I no longer kept a count. I had not bothered to update it since some day thousands of years ago when I massacred a couple of hundred civilians simply because Megadeath did not like the name of their village. Megadeath or me? How could I ever be sure? I shook my head. All that was on the outside; all that was Megadeath.

I wanted Brainstorm to know that on the inside I remained as strong and resolute as I ever had been, more-so perhaps. I wanted to let him see my drive for peace and my self-belief in the project, and that its inevitable long-term success permit the glorious ends to justify these horrific means. I wanted him to see my plan was finally working. I wanted him to know that even if on the outside I was this hideous creature called Megadeath, deep down, I was still Headwind. But the reflection of my eyes came back into focus and for all my wanting, they were no longer the eyes of Headwind. This day had been coming, I knew it was coming, it needed to come, I even wanted it to come, but it still scared me. It was time to confront Megadeath in a battle of foregone conclusions and accept the inevitable strength of a tyrant I had incubated and held back for so long. I wanted to still believe that Megadeath was mine, but the painful truth insisted I was his; Headwind was gone.

Screaming, I hurled my grotesque body at the violent figure that also screamed from within the glass of the mirrored wall. The impact of our clash sending me bouncing backwards and crashing heavily to the floor. I shook the jagged glass off my jagged face and sat up, allowing my eyes to focus on the remnants of the dead screens. My focus revealed nothing but the three eyes belonging to my broken face that reflected the insane laughter I felt taunting me from within my mind. With another desperate lunge I threw myself at the debris, arms flailing wildly, lasers pounding the floor. Within each and every shard of glass I saw my ugly face, and each and every mocking smile was shattered by my pounding fists.

Then it was over. My rage subsided. I let my cooling systems take effect and reduce my core temperature once more, for there was no more glass upon which to inflict my vengeance, the reflection of my true self reduced to fragments that for the time being could no longer haunt me. I sat alone in the room, kneeling on the floor, my tired arms hanging limp by my sides, my head barely able to hold itself high with the pride I once felt for my own creation. For a moment I considered what could have been, and perhaps what should have been, but it was too late now.

I summoned the strength to stand once more and turned back to face the flashing console, but now my finger levitated above a different key. I sighed as a wave of completeness cleansed any feelings of guilt that might have remained. I was a loner and always had been. My personal goals were now complete; now all that remained incomplete was Megadeath's side of the bargain.

Since Thunderwing came well and truly on-board, we had entered the final phase of a project with more stages than I cared to remember. So sure had I been of his ability to lead us into this new age, the beginning of the end of the war, I had been prepared to risk killing myself, the 'feint' of my suicidal proposition with Thunderwing was as sincere as my conviction in my work. Had I failed, had I been wrong about Thunderwing, then the consequences did not bear thinking about. But being correct in the assertion he would serve me, to live for my very protection, and that he believed whole-hearted in the threat I might pose should Cybertron fail to yield to my demands of unilateral peace proved to be the conclusion of my life's work.

He now served as the chief liaising ambassador between the figment of my imagination and the world at large. He ensured the legend of Megadeath and the threat he posed to Cybertron lingered in the thoughts of all who entered Stanix and beyond. He had taken over control of the troops. He recruited and rallied on my behalf. He had the militaristic charisma to do the job a scientist like me could not. With the protection he could offer, Megadeath was untouchable and the process of delivering the message to the masses could begin. We had them all gripped by the fear of Megadeath, either directly or as was more common, through Thunderwing. Logically time would spread the Legend beyond Stanix and into Cybertron and finally the planet would succumb to the Word according to Megadeath. Become and remain at peace with your neighbour or bring forth a war of such terrible devastation, the consequences would be unimaginable. It was time for my Ultimatum to be taken seriously on a broader scale. It was time to end this terrible war.

Whereas before I had been living the very dream, or perhaps the nightmare that was Megadeath, it was time for the reality. I had maintained faith in myself that I could develop the conviction of my threat through the credibility of Megadeath, but my adoption of such a vulgar psyche had come at a price. While I could no longer act as Headwind anymore, something I had not done for some time, more importantly, I could not even think as Headwind anymore. I had done everything I could to prepare Megadeath for his release fully, unrestrained, into the wild, and for that there was neither the room nor the need for two minds in this twisted body of mine any longer.

Be influenced. That is what I was told continuously at the Iacon Institute. My tutors should be proud of me, for I had done just that, to a degree no one could have predicted. With one last glance at the screen, I concluded once more that Brainstorm could not compete with Megadeath, not now or in the future. To click the button and erase his message file, so far as I was concerned, was also to erase Headwind's very existence. It was up to Megadeath to remain the threat and to retain his credibility without falling victim to my own creation's lust for mayhem. Could I achieve this without the sanitised balance offered by Headwind? Time might tell, but the truth was that I had been doing so for years. I clicked the button.

And now, it was over; Headwind was gone forever and all that remained was my sickening alter ego, an alter ego of such steadfast belief in the principles of peace, he would travel to the very ends of hypocrisy to endorse them. Staggering over to my view to remind myself just how far I had come, I stood upon my throne my hands aloft and savagely voiced my emotions out over the land for all my disciples to hear. "I am Megadeath!" I screamed for perhaps the one millionth time, to serve, as ever, as a personal reminder as much as to inform anyone else, "I am Megadeath!"

THE END 


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